Ties that Bind
by Faith Kendall
Summary: When you don't trust yourself, who do you turn to? Surrounded by people who care for her, Knight Captain Faith Kendall often finds herself thrown into the company of the one man who claims not to care; Bishop's plans for Faith are terrible and intricate.
1. Welcome Home

"Ties that Bind"

**"Ties that Bind"**

**Chapter One – Welcome Home.**

"Oh, loosen up, paladin," Bishop sneered, and threw his feet up on the gnarly oak of the tavern table, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back on the stool, so it rested precariously on two legs. "Faith has handled more difficult situations in her sleep, and trust me, I know that to be a fact." He smirked lazily at Casavir, who stood watchful at the window, dignified and resolute.

"Do not sully her reputation, Bishop; there are those in these walls who do not know your words to be false, as I do." He said levelly, watching the horizon steadily, waiting for the return of the Knight Captain, and Sir Nevalle. A hollow gnawing was winding in the pit of his stomach, and that was a feeling which never preceded glad tidings.

"Oh, you know for sure, do you?" Bishop spat back, aiming a kick at Grobnar's head as the gnome passed - missing, which only served to enhance his ill-temper. "Could be I've seen the inside of the Captain's bedchambers more than once."

"Or, y'know, you just want what you can't have." Neeshka spoke up from her position at the fireplace, leaning absently against the warm brickwork, eying the pockets of those not of her group as they passed her. Bishop slammed his stool back onto four legs, and turned right around to stare at the tiefling.

"What did you say, hellspawn?"

"Oh, jeez, that's a new one." Neeshka rolled her eyes. "And you _heard _what I said."

Casavir suppressed a smile, though he never averted his eyes from the slowly dimming horizon. If Faith was not back within the hour, she would not be back at all this night. They would be forced to make camp, rest the horses, and set off again at dawn. Although this wasn't a great tragedy, Casavir would much prefer her to return sooner rather than later.

"Shows what you know then." Bishop's voice rang out again, harsh and untamed as the man himself. "If I wanted her to want me, she would."

"If you wanted her to want to want you, you'd want to want her to want you?" Neeshka jibed in a sing-song voice, attracting a completely sincere _'Ah-ha! So clever!'_ from Grobnar.

"I think what she _wants_ is to get the job done and come home." Elanee's voice was calm, but the self-applauding undertone did nothing to soothe Bishop's mood.

"And we all know you think you know her best." He turned on the elf, throwing out an arm in a mocking gesture of compliance. "After all, you've been watching her all these years while the rest of us have merely been living our own lives, instead of someone else's."

"Easy there, Bishop." Khelgar emerged from over the top of his tankard, narrowing his eyes at the wayward ranger. "Elanee's not the enemy, here. None of us are. So maybe you can save all that hostility for someone who is, eh?"

"'The Hostile Ranger', now what a song that would make!" Grobnar flung up his arms and began a quick two-step around the room, his small feet marking a rhythmic staccato on the lovingly polished floorboards. "Bishop is so prickly, and so angry for a start / because the Hostile Ranger feels a feeling in his heart!"

"And you can shut up, right now." Bishop aimed another kick at Grobnar, who nimbly danced out of range. "You're disturbing the paladin, and he needs to concentrate to brood to full capacity."

Casavir remained silent and watchful, not willing to rise to Bishop's bait a second time. If the ranger decided to insult him, he would simply allow him to, for they were empty words spoken only to elicit a reaction. Casavir would not give him the satisfaction. An insult to Faith, however, would not be ignored. Sometimes even empty words have to be kept in check. The horizon remained still, and lifeless, and the paladin tried to put aside the urge to charge after the Knight Captain and help her in her task. This was something she had to do for herself, although why Nevalle insisted on being the only one allowed to accompany her was something that irked him more than he would have liked. Thoughtfully, he dragged his forefinger across the curve of his jaw, watching the treacherous sun sink ever lower.

Bishop stared at Casavir, waiting for a response but never getting one. He let loose an irritated breath and pulled his tankard back to him, taking a long drink from the strong and bitter ale. He was on edge, and even _knowing_ he was put him deeper into aggravation. Faith was gone, off on some idiotic Neverwinter-serving mission and as much as he loathed himself for thinking it, he didn't _like_ that she was gone. He didn't, in fact, admit it to himself. He let the thought pass through his mind, and then dismissed it, deigning instead to take another long drought of ale.

_Shit_. It wasn't as if it was her that he really missed anyway. Except missed was the wrong word; he never missed anything. But hells if there was anyone else worth talking to in this dump. More than a minute exchanging words with any of these fools and he wanted to bury a knife between their eyes. At least _she _had a bit of fire in her, something that was worth riling up and watching the results. Hells, he must be going soft; he'd been more than happy on his own in the Flagon. Of course, there were always welcoming whores to distract him in the Docks; Faith wouldn't allow them in the keep. A pity, she could have amassed a nice bit of profit from skimming their 'earnings' and he would have had a tumble every night. He'd thought the tiefling might be good for a tussle, if it weren't for the fact that he wanted to gag her every time she opened her mouth and there was no way in the hells he'd touch the elf. She was so freakishly thin that it would be like screwing a bag of thief's tools; she didn't even look _female_.

Faith, on the other hand, she had a certain something. But there was no point in getting attached, no point at all. Obviously he'd have to leave eventually, he wouldn't be tied down, not by a place or purpose - and not by a person either. Sometimes though, in some mad moments he felt like things were changing, he could feel _himself_ changing around her and it was maddening. They were little things like not kicking the feral cats that pissed everywhere in the keep; _she _thought they were cute. Stupid bitch. He slammed the tankard back down on the table so hard that some of the liquid splashed back up and soaked the tabletop. Zhjaeve was watching him stoically from behind her veil, her perceptive silver gaze seeming to pierce his very thoughts, and read his mind.

"What?" He demanded. He was never quite sure of what to make of the Githzerai, she unnerved him in a way he couldn't place. Perhaps it was her constant calm, or her eerie empathy. Either way, had it been one of the others staring at him, his words would have been longer, more of them, and rather more 'colourful' in nature.

"Know that you are not alone in your thoughts," She intoned. "Know that each of us here has been touched by the heroism of the Kalach'cha, and in denying who you are becoming you do yourself a great disservice."

Bishop was suddenly keenly aware of most eyes in the room on him.

"Really," He muttered into his tankard, not able to meet the piercing eyes of the Gith. "You don't know the first thing about my thoughts, so why don't you go practice your bronze-piece fortune telling on someone who'll buy it. Like Grobnar."

"You know, Bishop," Neeshka folded her arms and jutted out her chin. "There's a word for someone who makes fun of people smaller than they are."

"Yeah. It's 'taller'. Or 'better'."

"Try 'bully' or 'bitter', you half-assed sad excuse for a man."

Bishop shot to his feet, and in half a second Casavir was in front of him.

"Calm yourself, Bishop." Casavir's voice resonated in the suddenly silent tavern. "Or I shall quieten you."

"I'd like to see you try." Bishop squared up to the slightly taller man, his hand on the dagger slung across his chest.

"Loosen your weapon, or you shall."

"Oh my, horses on the horizon. Now wouldn't _that_ make for a good song...?"

The thickening of the air around the two men disappeared in an instant, their attentions pulled elsewhere. Casavir moved quickly to the window, pressing his palms against the sill to stare at the rapidly approaching pair of horses and their riders galloping in from the East - one horse a magnificent alabaster stallion, the steed of the Captain of the Keep. He let out a breath of relief which was long overdue. Bishop moved almost as fast, a mere step forward... but he stopped, mentally kicking himself for being such a lapdog, for feeling the jerk in his gut at the knowledge of her return.

"She'll be hungry. Sal, get the cook to rustle up something for her, will you?" Neeshka asked, and the barman nodded, vanishing into the kitchens to rouse the cook from his semi-intoxicated nap.

* * *

Hooves tore into the grounds of Crossroad Keep, their burnished bronze kicking up wads of turf in their wake, earth made soft by good management and good weather. Sir Nevalle urged his steed forward, trying to keep up with the one in front of him. She rode like she lived, fast and hard and without quarter. Steam and sweat rolled from the flanks of Asgaroth, the white stallion of Knight Captain Faith Kendall, the Captain of Crossroad Keep, the Shard-Bearer, the Kalach'cha, Orc Killer, Dragon Slayer. The list went on. She had been given many names, many titles since she left her home of West Harbour, but only one did she hold in any esteem. Her own.

She urged her steed on, on to hearth and home, away from the chill of the lands, and the discomfort of trying to make conversation with a man as rigid as Nevalle. She was injured, but not critically so, she was tired and hungry - but she was galloping towards good food, good walls, and even better company. She had missed her companions so terribly in the past few days, and it surprised her how eager she was to get back to them. Even, however improbably, back to bloody Qara, who had taken to sulking in the courtyard, as far away from Sand and Aldanon in their library as possible. Dust and debris kicked up a storm outside the inn as she reined Asgaroth to a stop. The horse let out a whinny and a snort, probably just as glad to see home as she was. She breathed in deeply, taking back the free air of her home, closing her eyes for a fraction of a moment, as Sir Nevalle finally caught up.

"You ride as if the whips of the Abyss were behind you, my lady!" He shouted out over the noise of the horses stamping and snorting.

"No. Just you, Sir Nevalle." She glanced over her shoulder at him and unleashed a grin.

Nevalle watched her dismount with admiration in his eyes. He was not a man to whom emotion or spontaneity came easily, but somehow being around the free spirited bard stirred something in his soul, something once dormant but now waking and looking at the world in a new way. He wasn't attracted to her, no, she wasn't his type. She was indiscrete with her emotions and her actions, scandal followed close on her heels; she was what he referred to as a 'loose' woman. But there was no dishonour in having her as an acquaintance. He had insisted on being the one to accompany her; truth be told he had lied to the paladin and claimed it was on Nasher's orders that he was to be the second, but it was only his resolve and curiosity which drove him to follow her.

Faith's booted feet hit the dust path and in her mind a harmonious chord sang out to meet her. This was the ground of her home, and she felt a wave of gratitude pass over her. She _loved_ this keep, loved it more than she'd ever thought possible. It was home now, irreversibly home, where she longed to be when elsewhere, and where her heart remained. She grinned to herself, and moved to stand in front of Asgaroth, stroking her fingers down his noble face, and laughing when he snorted and pushed his whiskery nose into her palm.

"Alright sweetheart, I know you're tired." She said.

The stable hands came clattering out, two Highcliff boys who knew their trade and had been a valuable find. Faith winked at Asgaroth, and stood back, giving him over to the care of the young men who would feed and water him, and make him comfortable. She watched the horse greet the boys with a snort of recognition and turned back to regard Sir Nevalle.

"It has been a long journey, Sir Nevalle." She said, eyeing the fact that he remained mounted. "If you would prefer, you are welcome to take a guest quarter and make your rest here this evening. It's still a way to Neverwinter."

"I... appreciate the offer but..." He began.

"Your horse is tired." Faith tilted her head, and gazed serenely at him. "As are you, I shouldn't wonder. The Keep is full of my friends. One more is no problem."

"Friends?" Sir Nevalle looked almost puzzled at the idea that the Knight Captain held him in such esteem - and unsure as to whether that was what she meant.

"Yes, Sir Nevalle. Friends." She cracked another grin. "I count you among their number. Stay, please. I insist."

Nevalle cleared his throat, and looked to the horizon. Perhaps he might have stayed on a different night, if he was permitted such luxuries as friends. He was the Voice of the Nine, and he had obligations. Never before had he longed, however briefly, for a night of normalcy amongst those who chose to be in his company, instead of being summoned for official reasons.

"I... appreciate your kind offer, Knight Captain." Though his words were stilted, he tried to convey the gratitude he felt in his gaze. "But I have business to attend to. Lord Nasher can be very... short, when schedules are not honoured."

"All right, Sir Nevalle." She made an elaborate bow - all humour and teasing. "In matters of honour, I excuse you. Though if our noble Lord grants you a day off then I have no doubt that Khelgar would be delighted to introduce you to the favourite pastime of the heroes of Crossroad Keep."

"What is that, milady?" Despite himself, Nevalle was curious.

"It's called 'See Who Can Drink the Most.'" Faith grinned mischievously and looked over her shoulder to the welcoming lights of the tavern. The faces of some of her friends were framed the windows; Neeshka gave her an enthusiastic wave and accidentally elbowed Khelgar in the temple at the same time. She felt her heart swell in her chest. It was the people of the keep that made it home. "Khelgar usually wins; I'm afraid I can't hold my drink at all. After the third they have to steer me gently away before the dancing and inappropriate behaviour begins. But Grobnar keels over after half a tankard, so at least I can beat _someone_."

"Well that sounds very..." Nevalle struggled for words.

"It is." The ghost of a smile flickered across her face. She felt rather mean for deliberately making him uncomfortable like this, but the man was immeasurably rigid and needed to relax. He made Casavir look like a _more _enthusiastic version of Grobnar. Back at the mines, she'd sliced her hand trying to force open an ancient steel door and let out a string of curses which would have seen Khelgar swelling with pride. Nevalle, however… By the scandalised look on his face, anyone would have thought she'd stripped naked and danced Eilistraee's 'Unbridled Passion'.

Sir Nevalle smiled - a rare occasion indeed - and nodded once to her. His steed kicked up dirt in great swathes as he turned back to Neverwinter and spurred it on. For a moment, Faith watched him go, an amused furrow in her brow. For the life of her, she'd never understand how one person could be wound so tight. If it weren't for growing up with Daeghun she probably wouldn't have been able to stand his presence at all.

"Hell if he aint pretty though." She muttered wryly, permitting herself a wicked chuckle.

She was _home!_ The joy swelled up in her like a force and she could barely keep herself contained enough not to skip to the tavern, instead managing a serene trot to the oaken door. Even the knots in the wood seemed homely, and she grinned stupidly at them momentarily, before flinging wide the door so hard it screamed on its hinges and elicited a protest from Sal.

Framed in the doorway, she spent a fraction of a second drinking in the sight with grateful eyes. There was Neeshka, trying to apologize to Khelgar and being waved off. There was Casavir, tall and proud, staring at her with warmth and feeling. There was Grobnar, making an elated dance around the corner table and Elanee sitting serenely thereby. And there was Bishop. He was perhaps the only person within the walls who did not look delighted at her return, instead offering only a scowl, and the briefest moment of eye-contact before turning his back on her and returning to consider his tankard. A merry grin cracked her features.

"Someone get me a drink!" She demanded jovially, throwing a wink at Casavir and opening her arms to embrace Neeshka who had run to her side. "You're all a sight for sore eyes, and that's the damn truth."

"We had waited for your return, my lady." Casavir spoke earnestly as she kicked the door shut behind her and entered the tavern proper. "And I am glad you have returned safely to us."

"You and me both, Cas." Faith hooked a chair out with her foot and sank into it, opposite Bishop who resolutely avoided her.

"What happened? Did you find anything valuable?" Neeshka placed a frothy tankard in front of her friend, who sighed gratefully and punched her on the arm playfully.

"Always about business." Faith's eyes twinkled. "I picked up a few bits for you, but don't get overly excited. The place was full of zombies, not gold pieces."

"Had I known it would be undead you faced, I would have made a greater effort to demand my inclusion." Casavir took a seat opposite Faith, which happened to be next to Bishop. The ranger made an infuriated noise, and slammed his tankard back on the tabletop making Faith quirk a brow questioningly.

"Get over yourself, paladin." He snarled. "The only thing you're good at is brooding and running into walls when the conversation gets too difficult."

"What does that even mean?" Neeshka muttered, turning over the jewellery Faith had handed her in her palm, biting down on a particularly large ruby, and letting out a squeal as she realized it was genuine.

"I'm sorry, was I using words too big for you, Horn-Whore?"

Before anyone could speak or act, Neeshka's patience had broken. She moved faster than perhaps she would have been able in less provoked circumstances, and her fist connected with Bishop's face with a sickening thud. He toppled backwards from his stool and the array of rings Faith had brought back for her gleamed on the tiefling's fingers, now glistening with the blood of the ranger. Faith flew to her feet, her fingers closing around Neeshka's upper arm and pulling her away. _Hells, she sometimes forgot just how fast Neeshka could be._ When Bishop shot to his feet, all fury and vengeance, it was Faith he came face-to-face with. Her expression was stony, and unyielding. And it pissed him off.

"Out of the way, princess." He spat, drawing a hand across his eye to wipe the blood which marred his view.

"Get over it." She snapped back. "You pushed it too far, and she gave you what was coming to you. Take it like a man."

"I'll use her innards as a table decoration," He snarled in reply, and moved to step around her. She matched his step and barred his way once more.

"Forget it." Faith moved to lay a hand on his forearm, but he pushed it roughly away. For a moment she looked hurt, then relented and gave a shrug. What did she expect from him anyway? "You got what you deserved. Maybe from now on you'll keep a more _diplomatic _tongue in that mouth of yours; I'd hate for you to lose it." She glared at him.

"Empty threat." Bishop shot back, though Zhjaeve noticed his eyes softened somewhat whenever he held the Knight Captain in his gaze. "I notice I still have the use of my legs; I only mention it since last we were at Port Llast you told me you'd break them both."

"True. I did say that." Faith tilted her head, and a wave of glossy chestnut locks cascaded across her shoulder. "I relented, however, after you were so helpful in tracking that Orc Captain. Would you like me to reconsider?"

"Any excuse to get up close and personal, eh?" Bishop shot back, and suddenly he was smirking.

"Any excuse, it would seem, to break your legs." Faith lifted sloped brows, laughter a faint step away. Slowly, she let go of Neeshka's arm, the tension had broken.

The evening passed in song, and drink, and easy companionship. Khelgar was sick twice, and Neeshka flummoxed Sal in a game of chance so many time he begged her to tell him the secret. It wasn't until the small hours that anyone even noticed Faith was gone.

* * *

The velvet tapestry of night stretched lazily across the sky, blanketing the world in soft hues of purple and silver, smoothing harsh edges until everything looked somehow calmer. Stars shone and blinked under the benevolence of a waxing moon, marking their unfathomable night dances, watched steadily by the girl who stood motionless in the midst of one of the meadows in the outskirts of Crossroad Keep. A warm breeze curled around her legs; the night was not chilly, and Faith was perfectly comfortable staring up at the clear skies, a smile curving her lips as she gazed at the celestial lamps.

"Would it be completely pointless to ask what you're doing?" A voice drawled from behind her, and she had to force herself not to jump. She let a breath hiss past clenched teeth.

"I'm just… looking." She muttered, not turning around to face him, but continuing her watchful vigil.

This time when he moved she heard it, almost indistinguishable footfalls on the lush grass, quiet like a stalking panther as he circled around her and stopped a few feet away.

"Believe it or not, my keen senses actually picked that up." He glanced skywards momentarily, dismissively, before turning his eyes back to the girl. "Is there any particular reason why you're gawking at the sky?"

"Because it puts things in perspective." Faith spoke quietly, then gave a little sigh and finally wrenched her gaze from the heavens, and let it settle on the ranger himself. The cut above his eye was blossoming into a hearty bruise of what would be spectacular colours. "Why haven't you had that healed?"

Bishop snorted, and let a shrug roll off lean shoulders; dressed in dark leather trousers and a loose fitting white shirt he looked different from his usual well-fortified self, he didn't look so harsh - even if he still was. Faith let a smirk tug at one corner of her lips - he looked more like a man, and less like a personification of rage. Bishop narrowed his eyes at her, tilting his head back a little as if trying to read her expression, her thoughts, and failing.

"Why do you ask?" He swaggered a few steps closer, folding his arms across his chest. "Want to kiss it better?"

"I don't think I'd do it justice, Bishop." Faith remained unflapped by Bishop's attempt to rile her. "I don't possess that particular gift. Paladins are particularly good at healing; maybe Casavir will kiss it better for you."

"Casavir can kiss my..." He began angrily, drawing his arms back down to his sides.

"Oh calm down." She cracked a grin at the furious expression on his face, and followed up her little victory with a step closer to him. _Flip the coin, turn the tables, and always press an advantage._ "You two are giving Qara and Sand a run for their money in the 'Neverwinter Snide Comment and Snipe Contest'."

"I just tell it how it is, sweetheart." Never one to back down from a challenge, even a verbal one, Bishop gave a roguish grin of his own and matched her step closer. "I can't help it if the paladin reacts badly to a few recreational insults. Must be all that brooding he does, making him all sensitive."

"As opposed to defensive and prickly, like you?"

"Or naive and stubborn, like you?"

A mere foot apart, they glared at one another, gazes matched in ferocity. The air between them seemed to have thickened as they drew closer, now a kind of palpability hung in the space separating them, resonating electricity which appeared to muffle any sound or sight except from the place they stood. Both sets of eyes blazed, both visions locked onto the other, each daring the other to push it further. Only one thing mattered - who would look away first? The air between them seemed to ripple and pull, Faith could feel her heart hammering in her chest, just as she could hear Bishop's ragged breaths. They glared at each other for what felt like a very long time - or perhaps a very short time - before something changed in the air again. Faith was suddenly acutely aware of him, of their proximity, how she could feel his breath on her face. They'd stared too long. Something had given way. Bishop's eyes never changed, but behind their icy exterior his thoughts were racing. He wanted to move, to close that gap between them. His mind willed his muscles to move. Faith took in a breath, just as Bishop started forward. It jerked her back to reality - she moved with him, but she turned away, she broke the stare, she folded first. She felt him come to a sudden stop at her side, felt his chest against her shoulder.

"I'm not naive." She managed to mutter, trying to fight back a hundred and one demands her mind and body were making of her. Her throat felt constricted, as if having him this close to her was too much; too much emotion, too many possibilities for everything to go so terribly wrong. She felt him shift his weight, and then draw back a pace.

"Well now, of course you are." His words were forcefully normal. "I never met someone so intent on _saving_ everyone she meets; regardless of whether or not they ask for it or even want saving."

"I haven't tried to save you." She finally looked back at his face. But it had closed suddenly, and completely.

"And for small mercies, may you thank whatever dead gods you believe in." Bishop drew back a pace and flung out his arms in a sweeping gesture to the heavens. "Enjoy your pointless staring, _Knight Captain_."

That said, he snorted derisively and turned on his heel, striding back towards the Keep itself, furious at himself for a hundred different reasons. He felt his muscles clench involuntarily, the stress of just being near Faith made him want to...

"I'll wait for you to ask me."

Her voice broke into his thoughts, and slowed his step across the dewy grass. He clenched his jaw, and let a breath stream out of his nostrils like a great magnificent animal in the half light. He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the girl in her leather and lace. She was all desire and badly concealed rage, desperately struggling against the tide of darkness threatening to pull her under and swallow her whole. In a fraction of a second, in the time it took for a night bird to beat its wings and take flight, for a small creature in the grasses to startle and bolt, in the spaces in between the moment and what might have been - in that time, he felt… something. Was it lust? Need? Pity? The spell broke, the shadows upon his strong features returned, and the bite in his words was evident.

"Don't hold your breath, princess."

She smiled to herself, perhaps only a little sadly, watching the silent slow march of the celestials above her. It was a night she might have penned a song in time gone by. But everything had changed, and it had changed so much. There was no way to go back, and she could feel the rush of eternity nipping at her heels. She knew her time was running out. It was a pity. As he spoke, she smiled again, and her breath made a cloud of resigned frustration in the rapidly chilling night.

"Don't call me princess," She whispered, out of habit.


	2. Lie to Me

**Ties That Bind**

**Chapter Two - Lie to Me**

**This was originally two chapters. I've merged them together because I took an irrational dislike to my original chapter two. (I woke up this morning and _hated everything._ Diva-sob!) The passages in _italics _are flashbacks and except for the Elanee section were all from the original chapter two. They are bits I felt were important for character development and didn't want to lose. An italic sentence in the middle of normal text is a thought.**

* * *

Clad in shining mail, enwrapped in leathers, or well fortified in plate - the Heroes of Crossroad Keep walked from the towering gates to the jubilant cheers of villagers and farmers. Faith shifted the elaborately crafted bow across her shoulders uncomfortably, offering only a nod of recognition to Orlen as she passed him, unable to play to the crowd as Neeshka and even Khelgar were so happy to. Sometimes she thought that refusing to be a bard anymore had stripped her of half her personality; six months ago she'd have given that crowd the show of their lives. Her booted feet made dull crunches on the dry earth, and she idly wondered how long this journey was going to take and whether they'd all come back alive, or at all; but still, there were the people _cheering them on _to their battles and possible deaths. She supposed it made some sort of sick sense; the people of the region had probably wanted a Knight back in Crossroad Keep for years; someone to watch over them and keep the wolves from their doors - so they took any opportunity to cheer on their reluctant Captain and her merry mismatched band. It had been some time since the veil was hauled back from her eyes and the equivalent of a flaming sword thrust into her hands, but she doubted she'd ever fully come to terms with it. It was probably a survival technique, something her mind did to prevent her going completely insane.

Someone knocked shoulders with her, two sets of leather creaking against each other with the contact in a way that was somehow utterly indecent. So it almost made sense when it was Bishop who shot her a withering look as he strode past, gunning for the head of the pack so he could do his ranger thing and not-so-subtly let them all know he was 'his own man'. _Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're a superstar, we get it. _Faith lowered her face, to allow herself a secret little grin, flashing even pearly whites to the packed earth beneath her.

_Her breath made clouds in the morning chill. She held a steaming goblet in one hand regarding it appraisingly before bringing the dark liquid to her lips and sipping its soothing warmth. _

_"Mulled wine? A bit early for drinking, wouldn't you say?" _

_Bishop certainly had a talent for finding her when no one else could. Sometimes sneaking off and finding a quiet balcony was the only way to stay sane in a world full of noise. The keep was always so busy, so loud; there was a constant stream of faces and she didn't know who half of them were. The Luskan army could probably set up camp in one of the wings, and if it weren't for the fact that she could smell a damn Luskan a mile away, she'd never know. So she'd find a little nook, somewhere people weren't making demands of her, and... Well, hide. But _always_ he'd turn up with some wise-ass remark. She half turned, ready to snap at him as the weight of a fur was draped over her shoulders, immediately stifling the cold. For a moment she gaped stupidly, then pulled herself back together._

_"Thanks." She murmured, abashed._

_"It's not like I shot a bear and skinned it for you, princess." Bishop strolled to the edge of the balcony and looked over the edge absently. "I found it in the room back there. Smells like something died on it."_

_That was Bishop all over. He could change from the brash, angry man she'd first met, and do something so out of character it stunned her. Then he'd swing right back into full defence, and the glimpse of the man she thought she saw behind all of his rage disappeared again. It left her feeling off balance, and slightly exhilarated. If it had been anyone else, she would have called them out on it. But despite herself, she was actually a little afraid that if she drew his attention to it, then those little moments would disappear forever. Which was a preposterous way to feel. Why should she care?_

_"So." He sniffed and turned back to face her, shoving his thumbs into the loops of his belt. "Why has the great _Captain _of the Keep run off this time? Too much Paladin around for you, my lady?"_

_"Maybe it's not enough." Faith lifted sloped brows and suppressed a smile at the thunder which settled into Bishop's expression. "I'm dodging our Githzerai friend. It's too early for riddles."_

_"I know that I've never known anyone talk so much without actually saying anything." One corner of Bishop's lips tugged upwards in a lazy smirk. "What's her name anyway? Jeeves?" _

_"Zhjaeve."_

_"I don't actually care. I'll never remember that."_

_"I'll need your help later." Faith said, squinting into the weak sun, drawing the fur closer around her as the trees framing the horizon seemed to conduct a wind their way._

_"I live to serve." Came the drawling, sarcastic reply._

_"In that case, maybe you should change the furs on my bed." There was a hint of laughter in her words._

_"Hah! I knew you wanted me in your bedchamber." _

_"You're way off base, B."_

_"Don't call me B, princess."_

_"Don't call me princess, B."_

_He swung around to glare at her, only to be knocked for six by the wicked grin on her face. He stifled a smile of his own that had threatened to rise and suddenly closed the gap between them. Two long strides and he'd grasped her chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger, drawing her face up to him. They were mere inches and a hundred miles apart. She gazed slyly at him, a hint of challenge in her eyes._

_"Has anyone ever told you, you're unreasonably argumentative?" He muttered, letting his gaze trail down her face and rest at her lips._

_"Has anyone ever told you, you state the obvious when you're uncomfortable?" Amusement freckled her words, and her eyes._

_"Shut up." He leant towards her, until their lips were a breath apart. "You talk too much."_

_"Mhm, I do." Faith inclined her head, a glossy lock of chestnut hair framing her features. "I expect you'd prefer a woman who was silent, and barefoot."_

_"Or a woman who's not covered in the blood of orcs, Luskans and Githyanki every damn day." A smile was tugging at his lips, despite himself._

_"Really? I thought that got you off, sweetheart." She let her lashes droop suggestively, and felt herself fall into the old routine. Make a man want you, then make him do what you wanted, and sooner or later you wouldn't have to do anything yourself. This was a game she had perfected. It was dangerous, in the same way a rose is; beautiful to look at, dangerous to touch._

_"I didn't know you cared so much about getting me off, princess." His heartbeat quickened, his steady gaze drinking in her features, the desire blossoming like a forest fire inside him. _

_"If I cared about 'getting you off', you wouldn't last a week before I had you rolling me in the hay."_

_"A week, eh?" _

_"I would say a day - but you're a tricky one." Her voice was little more than a breathless whisper, and she lifted her face oh so slightly, brushing the tip of her nose against his cheek. She heard his breath catch in his chest - it was a tiny noise, but she caught it. Check-mate. Time to end it. "And besides. I'm not interested."_

_"You seem interested." He said harshly. What was she doing? The girl ran hot and cold so fast it left him dizzy._

_"I was a bard, baby. I lie like I mean it." The smile that curved her lips was beautiful and wicked, and smug. Game, set, match._

_"Really."_

_He loosened his hold on her chin, and both hands grabbed her upper arms roughly, suddenly. Ah, yes. This was always the danger of the game - every now and again you pushed a button which should have been left alone. Once in a while you stirred up a hornets nest, and then had to ride out the consequences. It had only gone badly for her once in West Harbour. Oh, sure, she'd woven her 'magic' on Ward Mossfield, used him for chores and gifts until she'd grown tired of him and simply cut him down in the street with a barbed jibe. Of course he came after her while she was alone, and it looked like things might have turned very nasty until Bevil had showed up. But this wasn't West Harbour, and she wasn't helpless anymore. But as it turned out, Bishop wasn't Ward Mossfield either._

_He stared at her intently for a moment. Then he released his hold and turned away. Immediately she felt the guilt rush in to fill her up, it seared through her like liquid shame and she felt her face flush despite the chill. What the hell was she playing at? She was so far from being that girl again, but she'd reverted to type as soon as she wanted to get one over on the ranger? What kind of a person did that? With a rush of realisation, she cast her eyes to the cracked stones beneath her bare feet - she still had a lot of learning to do. A lot of changing._

_"Bishop, I -" She began, but he was gone._

_She swore under her breath and pounded the flats of her fists against the balustrade in exasperation with herself. It wasn't so much that she was worried she might have hurt Bishop's feelings - nothing short of a miracle would ever convince her that the ranger actually had them - but that she'd gone and done the one thing she promised herself she wouldn't do. She wasn't the bard anymore, she was supposed to be the warrior. And she couldn't be both._

Gods, that seemed like an eternity ago. Back then, she'd still believed that Bishop's attitude was a show, a temporary wall he'd built to protect himself from whatever haunted him. Maybe once that _was_ the way it had been, but now that wall was real, an immovable part of him which made any idea of changing him seem ridiculous. The only things that haunted Bishop were the ghost of impulse and the spectre of sarcasm, and possibly the poltergeist of 'Which Brothel Next'? She watched as he brought his thumb and forefinger to his lips and let a shrill whistle loose; that meant Karnwyr was around somewhere, following them through the trees or beyond the swell of the hill to their right.

As she idly glanced around for the wolf something else caught her eye, a figure in the near distance at the edge of the meadow. Elanee stood in serene detachment in the shade of an ash tree, observing them set out. Faith watched her as they passed, turning her head to regard her fully, a tinge of sadness in her eyes as she realised that she'd never be friends with the elf. Not now. Despite her initial dislike of Elanee's aloof attitude and tendency towards rigidity, she didn't really harbour any strong hatred for her. In someone like Faith, who's passions ran deep and burned more fiercely than Phlegethos, neutrality in anything was a difficult position to hold. Faith let a breath slip wearily past her lips as she turned away from the solitary druid with resignation, refocusing her attention instead to fussing and fiddling with the straps and coverings of the leather and mithril reinforced armour which was seeing its first fieldwork. As a matter of fact, this was the first trip for a lot of new things. She'd spent the last six months in an excruciating sun-up till sun-down training regime. It was for the purpose of readying her body for the act of taking a life. People found it hard to believe that she still retained her blood innocence, but it was a truth. She'd fought, oh yes, but only ever to incapacitate. Being a bard had meant seeing the dreams and delights of a person; it was almost impossible to kill something you've fallen in love with. She had fallen in love like that every day. It was what made her a good bard.

_Those six months were undoubtedly the hardest she had ever endured. True to her promise to Shandra, she brought her along to the training - and although the Highcliff girl wasn't as dementedly dedicated as the Knight Captain, she still managed to polish her skills admirably. Faith pushed herself to her bitter edge daily, refusing to yield to the pathetic whimpers her body made. Casavir sensed the change in her, the determination, and his training intensified to the point where he thought she was doing too much. She waved him down if he spoke his concerns though, and despite her ruthless regime, she never hurt herself. She complained frequently, but if Casavir suggested they take a break or finish early for the day, she would refuse. He was of the impression that she complained simply as a distraction technique. Whatever she was doing, it was working. One day, in early summer, she disarmed him for the first time. By the middle of August, her skill with her weapon of choice – the Sai - was formidable. After Khelgar referred to them as 'her little forks', she challenged him to a fight which would see him lose his axe, his footing, and gain a good deal of respect for forks. She was imaginative, she thought quickly and inventively on her feet, those were things no tutor could teach her and it was those things which would see her still breathing after a battle._

_Following the incident on the balcony, Bishop ignored Faith for a week. After Neeshka made some snide comment about him 'sulking like a baby', he resumed his habit of finding her when she snuck off to quiet parts of the Keep, and the matter wasn't mentioned again. He insisted on being the one to school her in the ways of the longbow, positively snorting down Casavir's quiet insistence that an average bowman such as the paladin would be adequate to teach Faith the basics. He was a much less merciful teacher than Casavir, and there were times she thought his drills of having her stand on logs holding up heavy books for hours were made up for the express purpose of humiliating her. But as the weeks rolled by, she couldn't help but notice the subtle muscle tone which hardened in her arms; Bishop insisted those exercises stopped after four weeks so that she didn't get arms 'like the paladin'. Faith had only intended to learn the art of the bow enough so that when she released an arrow, it would hit vaguely near the spot she'd aimed at, but that wasn't enough for Bishop. After two months, he changed the targets - made them more and more difficult. After four months, he only allowed her one arrow at any time, so that if she missed the target, she had to find it somewhere in a forest full of poison ivy and thick with vicious insects. When the six months finally rolled to a close, she'd grasped it artfully. She couldn't exactly split an arrow down the middle with the tip of another - though after several weeks trying in secret to do just that she was convinced it was impossible - but she could stick a rabbit from the back of a galloping horse; a feat which actually got her a brief smile from the ranger himself. She'd almost fallen off the horse when she saw that._

She caught Casavir looking at her in something resembling concern - he must have seen her brief sadness - and winked at him in a reassuring manner. He allowed a smile to creep across his face, and gave her a little nod. For a moment she let herself look at him properly; the way the muscles in his arms shifted as he adjusted his sword belt, how they gleamed in the sun. He was clean shaven today, a pity - she preferred him with a few days worth of travel on him. He was a man who could _work _stubble. He had always been handsome, but as time rolled on he only got better looking to her, a strange phenomenon she put down to the respect she had for him growing all the time. Strong features were arranged in an expression of quiet contemplation, dark hair shifting in a sudden breeze, showing off the streaks of grey here and there. Truthfully, it did nothing to detract from the man, perhaps even served to add 'distinguished' to the long line of words she could use to describe him. Occasionally she had to fight herself not to playfully stick her hands in his hair and mess it up.

Grinning, she returned her attention to the path ahead, marvelling at the difference a year made. Back then, if she'd winked at the Paladin he would have been more likely to blush a deep crimson and then fall over his own feet, or ignore her completely. She could remember the first time she'd met him as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Of course, that chain of events had been led by the argument which had separated Elanee from them since then. To her dismay, it was that disagreeable memory which decided to rise unbidden and wash over her…

_Of all the trials and battles, of all the hardships and moments spent fighting for her life, of all of _everything_she'd ever had to endure - _this_ was the worst. Faith's eyes appeared to have glazed over, an expression of quiet desperation etched into her features. She moved as one in a trance, like a person who had put themselves out of their mind to try and distance themselves from the horror their bodies were enduring. She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes as Elanee's voice piped up again. She thought she'd finished. But no, the torture continued._

_"As many stems and blooms as there are in Faerun, this _Yannis Tocara_ as it is known in the tongue of the lands is probably the most innocuous. It's commonly found in wetlands, which is why it's so fascinating to find it here upon a hillock."_

_"Kind of playing it fast and loose with the term 'fascinating', aren't you?" Faith muttered, but the druidess was lost mid-lecture, and didn't hear._

_"You hold her down, I'll gag her." Khelgar's voice rumbled up from waist height, and she flashed him a wry smile._

_"And this? Do you know of this bloom?"_

_A sickly looking pale-pink daisy was shoved in front of the Faith's face. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Neeshka near doubled over with laughter. _

_"For the love of the gods..." Faith muttered, fighting back the impulse to backhand the elf and be done with it._

_"Indeed!" Elanee turned a beaming smile to her. "The Love of the Gods is a rare plant.. I'm shocked you know of it."_

_"You know me, full of surprises." Faith rolled her eyes so completely she was sure the others could have heard a faint 'clunk'._

_"Well how about this then?" Elanee pointed at another flower. Another flower which looked exactly the same as every other flower to Faith._

_"That... is a small gnome dancing a jig." A frown furrowed her brow._

_"There's no need to be so dismissive." Elanee sniffed._

_"Look with your eyes, and shut yer yapping, lass." Khelgar butted in, pointing to the nearby gnome._

_"Perfect. Some other sad, mad or bad freak who'll doubtlessly want to come with us." Neeshka frowned at the small figure who was now hopping from one foot to the other, waving a battered looking mandolin at the shrubbery. The bush didn't seem impressed by his song._

_"We should not deny help to those who desire it, Neeshka." Elanee preached importantly, patting the tiefling's arm vaguely. "All of nature's creatures deserve our aid."_

_"What the..? Since when have you been in charge?" Neeshka seemed to have reached her elf-limit for the day, and her words exploded out of her. "Last time I checked, you were the _newbie_. You promised to get us to Highcliff faster, and what you _actually_ did was waste MORE time than we saved by insisting we investigate the undergrowth of your stupid druid grove. We had to kill a bear for you! Since then you've been standing forlornly in the Flagon, not even helping Duncan, but complaining about how much you hate _soulless, treeless Neverwinter_. Which is totally untrue, by the way – if you'd ever taken a walk outside the Flagon you'd have seen the gardens. So don't act like you've done us some big favour, when you're just dead weight."_

_"At least I am loyal." Elanee pursed her lips self-righteously._

_"What? I'M loyal!" The hurt in Neeshka's voice was genuine._

_"I have a feeling you would sell us all out for the right coin."_

_"Hey!" The tiefling actually dropped the sack of loot she was carrying, and it made a series of small jingling noises as it hit the earth despondently._

_"Elanee..." Faith broke into their argument, shooting Neeshka a glance. "Look. Elanee. I'm not sure why you wanted so desperately to come with us."_

_"Perhaps I wanted to ensure your safety. A foolish notion I am now regretting." _

_"How about you ensure your _own_safety, and go back to the Flagon, hmm? Before you break my last nerve?" Faith hadn't intended to speak so bluntly, but trying to suggest something gently to the elf was an exercise in futility._

_"There could be danger. You're in the wild, there will be wolves." Elanee spoke stubbornly._

_"Wolves we can deal with. It's not like wolves kill because they're evil. They kill because they're _wolves_." Faith shot the druidess a withering look. "There's no Big Bad Wolf, there's just desperation and winter. I'm surprised at you; I thought you of all people would know better."_

_"Perhaps I am not so well versed in the ways of creatures that are simply walking impulses. You, on the other hand, must positively feel a _kinship_ to them." Elanee's eyes had hardened, and the coldness Faith always sensed in them blossomed at the surface._

_"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She rounded on the elf._

_"You are _ruled_ by your passions. You're little more than an animal walking on its hind legs, letting the males sniff at you, rubbing up against anything that will take you in for the night." And there it was - a slight sneer to the expression, a distasteful curl of the lip. _

_"Really." Faith's words were breezy, but the fury flashed in her almond-shaped eyes, like far off lightning carrying the promise of thunder. The rage put flush to her cheeks, and prickled inside her like a wild thing striving for freedom. "Is that what you think?"_

_"Indeed."_

_"Then go home, Elanee." Faith shot her a look heavy with scorn and turned from her. "I don't need you."_

_"You are wrong."_

_"I _very_ much doubt that." She waved a hand dismissively, not even bothering to turn back around. _

_Her pride stung, and her jaw was set. How _dare_ she? As if her constant passive-aggressive tendencies and lectures weren't bad enough, but now she had the gall to start slinging insults around? Faith had been unceremoniously ordered from her home, sent off to some far away place she'd never given much thought to, and the elf was begrudging her finding a little comfort in the darkness? There hadn't been that many men, either. Three, in four months. Was that many? Mercenaries and soldiers, the kind of people who know how to appreciate 'now' for what it is; tomorrow might never arrive, or arrive in battle, so they lived as if every breath might be their last. Faith found a kind of beauty in that. She had never been fond of Elanee, but had tolerated her in a 'She's here, so just deal with it' kind of a way. Now it seemed she would not even be able to do that. Khelgar and Neeshka refrained from bringing up the argument, for which she was grateful. Whatever grain of truth might have been in Elanee's words, at least they did not judge her for being - what had the elf said? - A walking impulse. She felt her cheeks burn as she strode towards the clearing purposefully._

_She dismissed it from her mind - the elf was not worth seething over; and meeting Grobnar certainly served to drive all thoughts of Elanee from her head. Perhaps it was for that reason she allowed the gnome to accompany them to Old Owl Well, a journey that would otherwise have been awkward and filled with over-thinking past actions, which was instead made easier by his good-natured prattle._

* * *

She'd not taken a man to her bed since then. It bothered her a little that it was Elanee who'd been the one to point her accusing finger and cause this great reshuffle of her priorities, but she couldn't deny that it had sharpened her focus. When her training began she'd put all of those desires and needs into her muscles and resolve, working out any frustrations in the slashes of her sword and the ball of her fist. She supposed that was part of what made those sexless monastic orders up in the North so effective, when you've got all that nonfulfillment pent up in you, it gets released somehow - and when you channel it through battle, that makes for some pretty potent warriors.

"Are you alright, lass?"

Faith glanced down as Khelgar's familiar throaty rumble floated up to crash through unpleasant memories. She was more than a little grateful for the release, and smiled fondly at the dwarf. The road before them had melted into countryside; the sun was hanging low on a pink stained horizon whose clouds managed to block most of the chill from the air.

"Of course. Why do you ask?" She could hear the rhythmic clinks of Casavir's movement behind her, those reassuring metallic noises his well-fitting armour made letting her know he was ever watching her back. She felt a sudden rush of gratitude after the disagreeable jaunt down memory lane.

"You've been mighty quiet since we left the Keep. Lost in yer thoughts, were ye?" His weather beaten face crinkled up fretfully, and she tapped him playfully on the tarnished dwarven helmet he'd taken a fancy to some time ago.

"Oh, you know how it goes. You try not to have regrets but.. Sometimes even the best intentions go kind of astray. Mostly I was thinking about Elanee." Faith let a shrug roll of her shoulders, and forced it to be nonchalant. "Things never.. They never quite work out the way you plan, do they?" Zhjaeve must be somewhere to the right of her, meandering through the trees; she was humming some distant and unfamiliar Gith tune.

"No. I don't suppose they do." He shifted uncomfortably. He was a good friend - albeit sometimes a little overprotective - but he wasn't enthusiastic about pretence, and he'd always made it clear that the elf wasn't someone he enjoyed spending time around. "Ah, but cheer up." The sudden change in his tone nearly startled her as he thumped her companionably on the forearm, which was the highest point he could reach and gave such a broad and infectious grin that Faith couldn't help returning it. "We'll be stopping for food soon, and I've got some ale, and that ranger - well. He might be a murderous no-good scoundrel, but he knows how to catch a brace of good coney, I'll give him that."

"Will wonders never cease?" The familiar voice slid like a knife through relenting skin, low and brash. Bishop seemed to shift in from nowhere, just emerging from the foliage while managing to barely disturb the leaves. "Kind words from the dwarf? Why, you've always been so _short_ with me before now."

"Aye, well, I suppose with the demonling back at the keep _someone_ would have to make a short joke." Khelgar rumbled, snatching the catch of rabbits from Bishop's hands as the ranger chuckled in a manner one might even have mistaken for good-natured, that is if they'd never met him. Faith shot him a quizzical look, and the grin slid off his face, as if he'd been caught in a compromising manner.

Dinner was an unceremonious affair. Bishop had found a sheltered glade and got a fire going, it was roaring merrily by the time he led the rest of the group to it. With various degrees of relief, they stripped off the outer, clunkier pieces of armour, and sank into sitting upon logs Casavir dragged around the fire. The sun hung to the lip of the horizon like a lover's last embrace, but the fire kept out most of the chill that night stole in with. A makeshift spit was set up, made from some sturdy branches and fastened with twine, and the rabbits spat enthusiastically over it, flooding the glade with the mouth-watering scent of real food. Stealing secret glances at her companions, Faith was struck by how very different they were - not that she wasn't already aware of it, but it was particularly striking when they were at rest. As soon as the food was ready, Khelgar tucked into it with gusto, as if it were his last meal. But he tackled every meal like that, enjoying every taste and making appreciative noises as he chewed. A smile stole across her lips at that, since the dwarf probably wasn't even aware he was doing it. Zhjaeve had appeared long enough to make her prophetic pleasantries and then excused herself – apparently she didn't eat meat – to begin her evening in solitary contemplation just north of the campsite. Casavir ate as he lived, solemnly and with care, back straight, concentrating on the matter at hand. In the low light and relieved of his breastplate, he managed to look dignified even in the depths of the forest. Faith pulled a strip of meat from the shank and watched the paladin place his own discarded pieces of bone in a neat pile at his feet. Ever the gentleman, she wondered for about the hundredth time why he'd ever left the service of Neverwinter. He was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma; part of her didn't even want to find out, only wanted to enjoy the sensation of his thrilling inscrutableness. Speaking of mysteries, Bishop suddenly hunkered down on the log next to her, purposefully grazing his thigh against hers and flashing her a grin like a scoundrel.

"So, what were they?" He said slyly, carnally tearing a bite from the shank in his hand,

"What were what?" She dropped her finished bone to the ground and wiped her hands over each other absently, lifting her gaze to meet the intense stare of the ranger.

"These mighty dreams, these big plans you had before all of this." He waved a food-filled hand at nothing in particular. "What you and the dwarf were chatting about."

"I was talking about our solitary elf friend, actually." She cocked her head at him, amused and a little thrown by his interest. "But since you ask, I wanted to be a master bard."

"Sure. You'd be a great bard, sing for Emperors and Kings and all of Faerun would adore you." He snorted with derisive laughter, and took a great swig of ale from the skin at his side. "World doesn't work like that, princess. You'd have rolled in the hay without doing your counting right, ended up with a belly and a bad marriage to a worthless farmhand. Count yourself lucky that fate came knocking and spared you a life of soul destroying mediocrity."

"Well." She held his gaze for a long moment, and then shrugged, trying to appear as if his words hadn't bitten the way they had. "It's good to know you think so much of me. Excuse me."

In a moment she'd moved, across the campsite to the opposite log. Bishop watched her go, a triumphant smirk on his lips; she was so easy to rile, it was almost _too_ easy that all of her sensitive buttons revolved around her life before Neverwinter, as if she was ashamed of something. Stupid really, there wasn't anything he could see to be conscience-stricken about - so she'd tussled with a few men; a girl like her, passion like hers? He'd have been disappointed if she hadn't.

Faith dropped into sitting next to Casavir, letting out an exasperated breath. She dug the toes of her boots into the ground for a few moments, trying to shrug off his words. They hadn't bothered her all that much, truth be told, but it irritated her more than she'd like that he presumed to know where she'd have been if it weren't for this shard of silver stuck in her chest.

"Are you apprehensive about the coming battles, my lady?" Casavir's rich, deep voice slunk through her thoughts like silk. She retrieved a gnarly stick from the dampening earth, and wielded it experimentally.

"You know, I thought I would be." Faith jabbed the stick into the flames a little more enthusiastically than strictly necessary. "Turns out to be the complete opposite. You're a good teacher, Cas. I feel ready." She smiled warmly at the man beside her, and playfully nudged him with her shoulder.

"I am.. glad." For a moment the firelight frosted them both in reds and yellows, his strong features cast by shadow as he watched the Knight Captain. "No one would blame you if you were not ready, Faith.

"I'm _ready_." She glanced at him, amusement evident on her face. "Truth is, I'm spoiling for a fight. Ever since we left, it feels like my blood is boiling underneath my skin. Like it's waiting. Like it's always been waiting, you know?"

Casavir watched her as she chuckled to herself and once more stoked the dying flames; a shoal of embers erupted into the air, carried upward by the warm breeze and off over the topmost branches of the trees. There was a knot of regret and apprehension in his gut, and he narrowed his eyes at the flames as he rested his elbows onto his knees and templed his fingers. He knew Faith had to be prepared to take a life, but he couldn't help wishing that she would never actually have to do it. Of course it was inevitable now, they were headed into battle and for the first time she would lift her blades, instead of her voice to the enemy. This time tomorrow she'd have lost her blood innocence. It was a.. burden to him. It would be his skill in her swipes and jabs, his instruction which would drive home the killing blow and change her soul forever. It wasn't right, it wasn't _fair _on her; she was barely twenty-five and thrust into this world of death and destiny. More than anything, he just wanted to keep her safe. A glossy lock of chestnut hair had worked its way loose from the twine holding it back, and he fought back the urge to brush it from her face. He cleared his throat, and struggled for the words he knew he had to say, just as he knew how angry it was going to make her.

"To the best of my knowledge, you've never killed anyone, true?" He watched the fire carefully, choosing his words as best as he could.

"Casavir." Faith lifted her face to stare the paladin squarely in the eye. "I've been meandering down this path of blood for a good while now. I've _seen_ death. I've been indirectly responsible for it. I sang for blood, I was death's _helper_. You've all killed more people, because I was there with the good ol' war songs."

"Yes..." His voice was uncertain, trying to put together words he was quite sure she didn't want to hear. "But to take a life.. It's quite different. To administer the killing blow, to take away the hopes and dreams of a person who's crime most of the time is only doing their job, or is on the wrong side of a mad war.."

"You're trying to talk me out of it." She interrupted him, a frown crossing her features, a touch of confusion in her words.

"Of course not." He tried to placate her. "I just want you to be sure you know what you're getting yourself into."

"You are. I _know_ you don't think like that when you fight. But I also know that it sounds like the sort of thing I was likely to think about." Faith quirked a brow. "So all I can think is that you don't have any confidence in me. Which is just about the stupidest thing I think you could have said the night before a battle. You could have at least lied to me."

"My lady, please. I have confidence in your abilities..."

"Damn right you should! I can disarm you without much trouble these days, so you'd better hope it's me that's good and not you getting sloppy."

"It worries me a little that you seem to be so eager for battle." His voice was soothing, and she reigned her temper back in, ashamed.

"It's not blood lust. It's just... It's like an itch. It's underneath my skin, and in my blood. This is the path I was _supposed_ to take to get me through this war. Some deep itch, you know?" Subconsciously her fingertips made scratching motions over her forearm. Casavir watched her for a moment before he spoke again.

"There are some things worth fighting for." He smiled cordially. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and a thousand words passed unsaid. It was disarming, and peculiar and it made Faith shift her position, erratically scratching at the back of her neck as if to dispel the strange sensation.

"Yeah. I guess if you're not willing to kill for it, it probably doesn't matter much anyway." She cracked a grin, but Casavir's face had suddenly darkened.

"You sound just like Bishop." His voice was heavy with disapproval.

"What? No... No, I don't."

With anger in her eyes, she stood abruptly. She gave the paladin a steely glare before moving away from the warmth of the campfire, turning on her heel into the realm of wood and branch, pushing aside branches and brambles in her haste to be as far away from that conversation as possible. Casavir was only trying to protect her, to shield her from the worst of their bloody trade, but she couldn't help being furious. They'd be going into battle soon, at any moment, and she couldn't afford any conflicts in her heart, or her weapons. This was _war. _This was killing another being before they killed you - because better believe that _they_ didn't have a paladin with an attack of conscience whispering doubts at them.

She stomped through the close-knit trees, less a stalking panther and more a marauding hellhound, making enough noise to rouse the dead. She didn't care. They were too far from anywhere for people to be hanging out with the acorns, and not close enough to their destination that she'd be likely to run into enemies. Besides, at this very moment what she wanted most in the world, was to be angry.

A change in the air behind her! She moved faster than a whiplash, and twice as viciously - like a dance she'd committed to memory. She dropped, palms pressed against the forest bed, muscles bunched then released as her leg was brought around in a savage ankle sweep which knocked her would-be attacker to the dirt. In half a second she was on top of him, the wicked point of an ornate sai pressed a breath from puncture-pressure at his throat.

"Bishop?!"

"Wondered how long it would take you to jump me." The ranger grinned salaciously in the half-light, dark amber-flecked eyes heavy with suggestion.

For a moment she just stared at him, all too aware of their position. Her chest on his, their hips touching, her breaths ragged and heaving from exertion and adrenaline - fire erupted through her veins. She opened her mouth to speak, but her words caught in her throat. Nearby, some night creature screamed, and the spell was broken. Her eyes narrowed, and she pushed herself up on her elbows, pulling the sai away and shoving him in the chest with her free hand. She scrambled to her feet, pushing out a long exasperated breath and replacing the sai in its leather sheath unceremoniously. Bishop smirked up at her lazily, bringing up his hands to shove behind his head and lie there as if it were some sunny beach and he was simply enjoying the view.

"That's a good way to get yourself killed." Faith spat ferociously. "Make some noise when you sneak up on someone in the middle of the woods at night. Or I'll get you one of those collars with a little bell on it."

She turned to leave, furious with herself, but he moved faster than she could have thought possible. He was off the ground, and then his body was against hers in a moment, her wrists pinned tightly above her head by his hands, chest to chest as he shoved her against the rough bark of the nearest tree. She felt the wind go out of her, and then his cheek was against hers and he was hissing in her ear.

"Think I'm domesticated, do you? You forget who you're dealing with, Faith." His breath was like fire, rolling past her ear and down her neck. Despite herself, a shiver ran the length of her spine, and the fine hairs at the back of her neck stood to attention.

"You... Can't take a... Joke... You know that?" She managed, wheezing and trying to catch her breath back.

"And you think you might have killed me, do you?" She felt his body tremor as he gave a low, wry chuckle. "You _hesitated_."

"I... What?"

"You hesitated, princess. You can thank your paladin for that. I heard him talking to you, trying to save you from the injustice of having to take a life. All he's done is made you second-guess yourself. If I'd have actually come for your blood just now, you'd probably be dead. Because you hesitated." His words washed over her, deep and hot next to her ear, making it hard to talk, hard to _think._

"I... knew it was you.." She choked out.

"Bullshit." His body shifted against hers, and she had to fight to keep her knees steady. "Now you listen to me, _Knight Captain. _Don't you hesitate. When we get there tomorrow, you fight like hell is after you, because princess? It is. They will be trying to _kill_ you. More than that if they get the chance. If you want to be tortured and _used _by demons and worse, then you think about what dear old Casavir said. If you want to survive, you forget he ever spoke to you, and you remember what I'm about to tell you."

"He..." She began, but he intensified his grip on her wrists, and pain shot through her arms, making her breath catch.

"_Listen._" His grip relaxed somewhat. "When you fight, _leave your heart behind._ When you kill, kill like you love to do it. You were a bard; you lie like you mean it - right? So lie. Lie to yourself and you'll keep that pretty head. Killing doesn't matter, only living."

He drew back his head to meet her gaze, his eyes burning like molten pools of wrath, as if he were some fallen avenging angel, dangerous and beautiful. _Now's not the time to wax poetical, Faith. _She struggled to answer, though whether it was because she was angry or winded, or because she was intensely conscious of his lean frame pressed up against hers, she didn't know. She could feel his chest moving against hers as he breathed, felt the rage in him which she was certain she could shift to passion if she just.. _No, no, no!_ _This is Bishop! It would break the Keep! Casavir would never forgive you! Think of the consequences! _Her common-sense and reason screamed at her to get him off her, to get as far away from this situation as was humanly possible. But there was another part of her which felt his weight against her, felt the heat of him and the hardness of his muscles, the line of his strong jaw, saw the fire in his eyes and wanted to start tearing at his clothing. He pressed against her, and her eyes fluttered to half closed, a breath escaping as he lowered his head again, and she felt his lips brush the soft skin just above her clavicle.

"By the way..." His breath rolled across her throat, and she shuddered with involuntary rapture. He must have felt it because he paused, then chuckled. "I heard your whole conversation." And then one hand was trailing the backs of his fingers down her arm, and the other was tracing the soft skin just above her belt around to it's fastening, and her arms were free but she couldn't seem to move.. And _then_ his lips were whispering against hers. "Allow me to scratch that _itch _for you, my lady?"

In the fastest of fleeting moments, a series of heady and dizzying images flew through her mind. There was Elanee back in Old Owl Well, telling her she was nothing better than an animal. Letting her know she was simply a series of base impulses thrown together in a pleasing form. And Casavir, his noble features twisted in disgust as he turned from her and the most loyal and best of men disappeared forever. She saw in a heartbeat, the looks on her friend's faces and heard the whispers in the halls. And she saw Bishop, bored and cruel, disappearing over a distant hill never to return. She saw the future as only it could be if she gave in to this. _No, no, no, no!_

"No..." She breathed, and felt him draw back suddenly.

"Lie like you mean it, Faith." His words had a bite of menace to them.

"I said no." She stared at him, as his face darkened. _Get a hold of yourself. You don't even like him most of the time. Matter of fact you hate everything he stands for. You only like him in those tiny moments he does something out of character. Out of character! That's not who he is, and he'll never be that. You can't change him, and you both know it. Sometimes he'll say something you wish you could say, and you admire him a little for that - he's the dark part of you inside that's cruel and ruthless and scornful. He must know exactly what he's doing when he give you those little glimpses of something different in him, he's playing you like a fiddle and you're falling for it. You like the man he could be, but he'll never be that man. Do you think it's worth destroying everything you've tried to build, just for a man who every now and again does something halfway resembling decency? It would kill you to be with him. He doesn't make you feel safe, or good, or worthy or anything that you need to stay alive. He's too broken and you can't fix him. You can't save him. _"I've got a battle to fight, and this won't help anything."

He drew back, lifting his hands clear of her in a mocking conciliatory motion, a lazy smirk on his face which belied the turmoil beneath. He'd felt her pressed up against him, felt her shift and shudder against his body and his imagination had no trouble in taking him to where he thought these events were inevitability leading. Now the possibility of having her had been pulled away from him again, and the frustration rolled in him like a turbulent ocean. Well, she'd get over this barrier of propriety eventually, then she'd come crawling back for the one thing she'd denied him. He'd make her beg for it too. Something about her passion was unequivocally alluring. He let the smirk on his face widen into a grin.

Faith took a purposeful step away from the offending tree, pushing out a low calming breath. She felt flushed, and knowing he'd coloured her cheeks made them sting all the more. The fire moved to her belly, and she felt conviction imbue her - her gaze snapped up to fix upon his, and the darkness in it made his grin falter. She'd liked that.

"Whatever it is you think you won just then?" Her voice was low, and wrapped in a kind of certainty she'd prayed for. "You didn't. You think you're fooling me, B? Think I'm up at nights wondering where you are? I sleep soundly."

"Tell yourself whatever you need to hear, princess." The flat of his forearm was brought up to rest over his head against a tree, his whole form leaning languidly.

"I don't even know who you are." She moved closer to him, but this time her gaze was cold, as if she were examining some rare species of insect. "Hells, I don't even know _what _you are. I keep thinking you're a person, but then you just keep proving me wrong. Damn, I thought_ I _was good but you? You're a practiced liar, aren't you?"

"Yeah." His grin was wolf-like in the gloom.

"Liar."

"You bear that in mind." He said, looking lazily amused.

She shook her head, long chestnut locks shifting with the movement, catching the last rays of light and shining. Her features were flawless, and set in this mask of... of... _Realisation _they seemed to be carved from living marble. Created, rather than conceived. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he didn't like it. She'd always been more aware of people than others, she was a bard - a student of the human animal, but she'd never been able to see _him. _Now she looked at him as if she knew all his dirty little secrets.

"You're a bargain sealed with blood." Her gaze trailed his form, up and down, as if seeing him for the first time. "Born in the fires, and shaped by steel. Steel and spike and shadow. That's the last bit of bard I had in me. But I think I've still got it."

"Really?" His voice dripped with distain and he shoved himself away from the tree, squaring off to her. "Cause I think you're guessing."

"You're entitled." She turned to leave, but paused and spoke over her slender shoulder. "I'm doing you a disservice by hoping you'll change, aren't I?" She just snorted in derision at her own rhetorical question, a sound which was reminiscent of the exact same noise he made when something was utterly scornful to him. "We've all got something to atone for, Bishop, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was that made me think I was wise enough to understand you." She turned back to the path she'd made getting here, all broken grasses and torn branches. "I'll see you in the morning."

It wasn't a question. Bishop watched her go, fire and brimstone erupting in him. A breeze pervaded the night, traipsing through the darker places and forgotten niches, breathing life to the realm of root and branch around him. Whatever spark of truth she thought she knew about him, he'd prove her wrong. She wouldn't be right, he wouldn't let her be. Even if it meant pretending to play nice like the rest of the sheep. He could put up with that, if only for the look on her face when he turned it all around on her.


	3. Old Beginnings

Ties that Bind

**Ties that Bind**

**Chapter Three – Old Beginnings**

**Rated M for language, descriptions of bloodshed and death.**

From the farthest reaches of the wicked South, from forgotten places and untamed landscape the wind blew in. In Candlekeep it caressed the yellowed, age ravaged pages of a timeworn grimoire which held the deepest of dread rituals. In Waterdeep it skimmed the cooling corpse of a kindly nobleman, cut down in spite and secret by his own jealous cousin. It marked its labyrinthine path through the Sword Mountains and was cleft to a mere zephyr by the tainted, stained scimitar of an orcish barbarian fighting his own breed in the midst of a mad tribal war. By the time it drifted and danced upon the loose shale of the road to Arvahn, it was a mere footnote in the tempests of the world; a flighty gust which carried a faint scent of tantalising promises and far off danger, whispering oaths and forgotten truths into the ear of the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep as she honoured her morning habits by dawns first light.

Her fingers remained wrapped tightly about the leathery contorted surface of a low hanging branch. Her slender limbs would fool the eyes alone - only their subtle tone and hale sheen gave hint to the brawn beneath. They flexed then, as her body was brought up, muscles groaning in protest as her chest met the branch, a faint glaze of sweat making lithe limbs glisten. A breath was released as if a stopper had been torn from its confines.

"...Fifty-_two_!"

She lowered herself back down to her start position carefully. Control. It was all about control. Too fast and you'd burn out. Too slow and you'd never get there at all. Push, pull, heave, control. Work. Six months ago she had rarely seen the first light of dawn, preferring instead to lounge beneath silken sheets and rise only when absolutely necessary. How anyone had ever looked upon her as a leader back then was a mystery to her, and the shame of it put colour to her already flushed cheeks, burning and slick from exertion. A twitch to her chin then, as she set her jaw, her frame lifting and lowering to the steady background of her carefully measured breaths. These days, the pale rim of dawn was a daily rendezvous, and her heart swelled to see the sun lifting over the distant snow-dense mountains. It was a contest between the girl and the star, a ritualistic cosmic challenge to see who would complete their daily tasks first - she had to reach a hundred lifts, and the fiery disc had only to climb clear of the horizon. Sweat made her palms slick even beneath the fingerless leather training gloves, and she adjusted her grip dexterously before redoubling her efforts.

"...Sixty-six!"

The weak morning sun seemed to ascend with remarkable speed today, moving up the pale blue sky as if it particularly wanted to win this round with her. For a long moment, she regarded it quizzically as her frame lifted and lowered rhythmically in the sickly light. Perhaps it was vexed with the girl, perhaps offended - after all she used to sing to the dawn and now it only heard her groans of exertion.

"I... Didn't do that... Very often!" She protested, in between lifts. ".. _Seventy-four_!"

But she had done it once or twice, greeted the rush of a new day with song, lifting her voice to the paling stars in the hush and peace, in harmony with nature and marvelling that such a quiet time existed at all. Yes, she used to sing. Of course, it was more than mere melodies which had been placed firmly in her past; moreover there were some... activities she used to do which were no longer a part of her plans. She blinked furiously as a bead of sweat stole into her eye, fighting down the urge to rub at the stinging sensation, and suppressing a whole host of other urges which had suddenly presented themselves for scrutiny after her mind casually wandered over her life pre-revelation. How long had _it_ been? Last time had been... That lieutenant down in Fort Locke. It had nearly broken her tragic little bard heart to see him standing there, straight and tall under the weight of his responsibilities; she'd seen the determination burning in his eyes like a righteous flame of retribution in the midst of all the chaos and decided to do what she could to ease his mind. As she lowered herself from the branch again she snorted in derisive laughter. Did she really used to think like that? She knew the truth of course, she knew what had really caught her eye had been his broad shoulders and plentiful muscles, the handsome features which had turned to regard her hungrily. Also, she'd liked his uniform. A wry smile slipped across her lips. Gods that was a long time ago.

"...Seventy-nine!"

And after last night, having Bishop test her resolve like that... Unbidden, thoughts of the ranger pressed keenly against her flooded her mind, the tantalising memory of his heated breath on her smouldering skin, the magnificent sensation of his strong hands gripping her wrists, and the desire to feel those same hands on other parts of her body.. _Oh no you don't_. _Put the desire into your muscles, let it make you stronger. Do not think about Bishop! _

"...Eighty-six!"

Son of bitch probably had no idea just how close she'd been to snapping last night. He nearly got exactly what he wanted from her; she was about an inch away from throwing in the towel and giving him the ride of his life. He'd smelled like pine and leather, and his body was like a coiled spring, it would probably have been incredible. Why the hell had she stopped him again?

"...Ninety-one! Because... It wasn't... Right!"

A small sparrow in the tree above her cocked it's head at her words, opening its beak to let out a stream of warning calls which sounded a little too close to laughter for Faith's liking. She tilted her head back and glared at the bird. Giving in to Bishop would have been wrong. For one thing, she'd sworn off men. For a rather better reason, he was an utterly poisonous person who would undoubtedly pollute her life until it fell apart like a wormy apple, and then he'd leave too. It wasn't as if she even really wanted him, more she wanted the idea of who he could be - the bad boy turned good by the heroine. The idea was so ridiculous that she let out a scornful cackle, scaring the sparrow from its lofty perch. Change Bishop? You might as well try to drink the ocean, or see the wind.

"... Ninety-nine!" She chanced a glance at the horizon, and a rather comical expression of dismay found her face as she saw the sun had cleared the horizon by an inch at least. "Bugger! One hundred!"

She unwound her fingers from the gnarled branch with ease and dropped neatly to the ground. Her arms would ache horribly for at least an hour but her more base urges had been suitably chastised by the work out, and she felt better for it. You never could tame the beast, not really, but you could bloody well work it into submission for a while. After all that what she really wanted was a good bath, followed by a good breakfast.

Of course, a freezing dip in the stream and the rabbit left over from last nights dinner would have to do.

* * *

Breakfast was a solemn affair. Zhjaeve had reappeared after spending the night in contemplation or whatever it was Zerths did. The feeling that she had forgotten something had been annoying Faith, until in a moment of sudden panic she realised they'd neglected to pick up Shandra at _The King's Ransom_ as promised. After a brief argument, Casavir was dispatched to collect her; he flat out refused to let Bishop do it. The paladin had been on edge all morning, sensing something festering unmentioned between the Knight Captain and the Ranger, and although Faith insisted it was nothing, the way she resolutely refused to even look at Bishop spoke volumes all of itself.

"_You look good wet," He'd said, leering as she stepped back into the clearing after her bath. He brushed against her purposefully, tossing a leg of rabbit back at her after he was sure she was glaring at his retreating form._

"_Get a good eyeful, sweetheart." She'd thrown back, rolling her eyes at Zhjaeve who had been attempting to look anywhere but at the two warring souls. "It's the only time you're going to see me like this."_

"_I didn't say I wanted to see more," He was sharpening his hunting knife now. "But if you're offering, I've got some time to kill. Nothing better to do."_

While they waited, Faith busied herself with drying her hair from the dip in the stream, and then reorganising her pack, anything to avoid the twist of shame in her gut which told her what she'd nearly done with Bishop last night was unforgivable. She could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of her neck. In a moment of mad desperation she asked Zhjaeve to tell her about the history of the Githzerai, to distract her from herself. Although the tale was long and filled with flowery double-speak, it was still rather fascinating. Say what you will about the Gith, they knew how to give names to their wars and conflicts. _The Pronouncement of Two Skies? _Come on, that was golden.

Shandra had apparently been placated enough by Casavir on the journey back to them not to raise even a tiny argument over her abandonment. As Faith readied herself for travel, strapping on all the shiny new armour she could lay her hands on, she realised that the way Shandra looked at the paladin irritated her more than she'd like. She put it down to her own ego, and gave her blonde-haired friend a dazzling smile as they set out, to compensate.

"_Are you okay?" Shandra had asked, laying a concerned hand on Faith's shoulder._

"_Peachy." She'd given her a wink and a shrug. "Just gearing myself up for the inevitable, you know?"_

"_Well, alright..." Shandra had watched her carefully for a good half-mile, exchanging furtive looks with Casavir. Faith knew they were only worried about her, but their concern put a fire to the knot in her belly._

Arvahn rose like the ghosts of eternity through the pouring rain. The downpour made sense, it _should_ have been raining, the bard in Faith thought as she gritted her teeth to the sound of battle ahead. This was it then. This was what she'd been training for. She had better be ready.

Faster than she could have imagined, the moment was upon her.

* * *

The maw of the thing dripped sweat and slime, hog-like teeth protruding over the extended upper bridge, rotten and stinking but still capable of tearing skin. Its eyes were sunken and beady, crimsoned by rage as it lifted the tainted alloy of a crudely made weapon and let out a furious roar.

"Be gentle with me." Faith's grin was a flash of white. "It's my first time."

The moments seemed to merge as the orc charged towards her; it wanted to feel her sinew snap beneath its blade. The world became steel and blood. She moved like a dancer, one foot to the next, the sai streaking through the downpour and into the greying flesh of the orc. Warm liquid sprayed against her face and up her arms, it felt thick and greasy but her mind refused to process it further yet. She drove the point of one sai deep into the belly of the orc, and as it lurched over in agony she brought the other up sharply. It sank into the underside of its chin to the hilt, and the point erupted atop its skull in a spray of ichors, shards of bone and other thicker things.

The world seemed to grind to a slow halt; the rushing of the rain dwindled to a leaden thumping, like the heartbeat of creation. Faith watched the fury, the pain and finally the very light go out of the creature's eyes. It happened in a fleet moment, a _kairos_. It hadn't even managed to fight back. Just like that, her blood innocence was lost. She felt herself start to splinter inside; the enormity of what she had just done threatened to engulf her completely. It had been an Orc, yes, but did that mean it had not ever loved? Did it mean it had less right to breathe, to dream, to live?

Her breath caught in the back of her throat, hard and burning with the beginnings of bile; her legs suddenly felt unsteady as if she would fall, fall to the drenched loam camouflaged by the blood which she had spilled – then someone hit her so heavily across the face she felt her lip break.

"Don't you dare." Bishop grabbed the back of her head, hard, closing his fingers into a fist in her hair to force her to look at him. His teeth were bared, shockingly white against the dirt over his face. "Get a fucking grip, it was you or him. Now pull yourself together and get back out there."

Time stopped. She stared at him numbly for a split-second. Something like gratitude flashed across her face as the rain thundered down, and she gave him a fractional nod. His fingers unwound from her hair, the nod was returned – and then he turned, notching and releasing an arrow with breathtaking speed. She tugged at the sai - they came free with noises of wet resistance, coated with blood and gristle. A slow smile tugged at pale tiers, fathomless almond-shaped eyes deepening with a sudden darkness which set them burning brighter than brimstone and retribution. Time snapped back.

Upon one foot she turned, muscles bunching like finely tuned instruments, a leg extended to slam into the chest of an orc running towards Casavir. It folded over with barely a sigh, and stopped breathing altogether as she slammed a sai through the back of its neck. Her free hand shot out to the right, the point of her weapon skewering an orc just beside its misshapen nose. A savage twist, and she wrenched it upwards – skull fragments and fluids plastered the sodden earth. _Killing doesn't matter. Only living matters. _She turned on one heel, both sai thrust ferociously through the exposed torso of a goblin, and then withdrawn with equal savagery. It squealed as it hit the mud, writhing like a stuck pig. _When you kill, kill like you love to do it. _She moved, and slashed. She ripped, she ruptured, she severed. She saw flesh and bone, blood and bodies – she didn't see people, she never let herself see hopes and dreams. Just lambs begging for the slaughter.

Faith was dimly aware that she had been injured – it was like a buzzing in her ear, an insistent nudging from her mind. She ignored it. It was the Chieftain whom she fought, the high commander of the orcs in Arvahn, and if she let herself realise she was hurt then she was done for. Adrenaline flooded her limbs, driving her on, putting pay to the slashes of her weapons and the strength of her arms and the endless flurry of blows, the swipes and stabs of the clean steel of her sai slamming against the blade of the Chief over and over. It roared after what seemed like hours, and drew back both arms for a brutal stab downwards. As fast as a striking serpent, Faith ducked and lunged, letting out a primal yell as she buried both sai deep into the gut of the bellowing Chieftain. With a grunt of exertion, she ripped them upwards and outwards. Faith stepped back as entrails and gore tumbled to the earth, then she saw the orc was still coming even in his death, saw the sword hurtle towards her, felt her ankle catch upon a twisted root, and fell...

A shoulder slammed into her.

Strong arms carried her down, rolled her over through the soaking mud. Instinct made her struggle, but she lay quiet as suddenly her world seemed to explode in a flash of fire and earth, dust and splendour - it smelled like a glimmer of blue at the edges of nothingness. She felt herself come clean of the battle, felt the tide of red fade away and the beginnings of pain register on her bruised and wounded body. Someone laid against her, breathing hard, an arm keeping her down - keeping her still. The confusion of it all made her struggle again, until a hand was laid firmly but gently against her cheek, stroking back her hair in a soothing and repeated motion.

"Come back to us, Faith." The voice was low and resonant, and it made her want to melt into the ground beneath her, to relax completely. "It is over."

Her eyes flicked up, a deep steel-cobalt in their oval prisons, focussing on the man above her. His face was stern but there was no mistaking the noble soul and kind heart enkindled gloriously behind a blue-hued gaze. _Casavir. _She was vaguely aware of smiling.

"Thank the gods..." She breathed, letting her eyes flutter shut and laying her head back heavily on the squalid mud.

"You did well, my lady." Casavir brushed a matted strand of hair from her face, keeping the Knight Captain safe while Bishop and Shandra quickly finished off the remaining combatant. His gaze softened as Faith laid her head back, and he let his eyes trail the delicate contours of her features, lingering on the serene smile tugging at her lips. She had done _more_ than well. He'd watched her manoeuvre with grace and speed, with devastating accuracy her blows had rained down on their adversaries. He'd been surprised how very sad it had made him. He had trained her, yes, but still somehow he'd wanted to spare her this. He'd wanted more than anything to protect her, to keep her safe. But he'd tried to come to terms with the fact that he would have to settle for keeping her sane. He lowered his head in reverence, lips moving gently as low words of praise spilled forth, spreading a semblance of rejuvenation upon the devastated battle ground. His palms were infused with a holy light as he concentrated them over her bloodied form tenderly. Torn flesh began to knit back together, sinew repairing itself under his watchful ministration. Shredded muscles healed themselves, repairing even the deepest of battle done damage. Her broken wrist glowed briefly; the benevolent assistance of Tyr putting right what evil had done in the name of wrong gods and pitiful causes.

Faith stretched like a cat as the last of the healing euphoria washed over her, opening her eyes to meet his steady gaze. She watched Casavir for what seemed like a long time. _The weight of blood should be heavier. I shouldn't be able to feel my hands under all of this darkness._

He drew back from her, as footfalls registered on the eternity-etched earth, helping her to her feet. She gave him a grateful nod, and turned to the rest of her companions. Zhjaeve watched her stoically, her staff grasped lightly in grass-hued hands. Shandra looked breathless but exhilarated as she knelt to wipe her blade clean on a fallen war banner. And Bishop? He just stared at her with eyes that might have burnt a hole in the universe. He looked proud. She hated him a little for that. Shamefully, the larger part of her soul rejoiced in it.

"How'd you feel?" Bishop asked her as they gathered themselves for the next battle. She'd been surprised he'd even asked, and the look on her face must have betrayed her thoughts. "Forget it." He spat.

"I'm glad you did what you did." She said quietly. The expression on his features made her smile. "I am. After what happened last night, I didn't think you'd look out for me."

"Get over yourself, princess." His words were harsh, but he smiled as he spoke. "Not everyone needs to get between those smooth thighs of yours. Would have been a distraction, but I'm not going to start writing poetry because you weren't in the mood."

After all the chasing and searching was done, when the ghost-lights had been extinguished and the Temples conquered, she wondered why, at that moment back then as Casavir had stared down at her, there had been tears in her eyes.

She barely had time to think about it, before she found herself back on the suddenly scorched soil of her home village. Back in the oldest beginning she'd ever know.


	4. The Price

**Chapter Five – The Price.**

**Rated M for lots n' lots of language.**

* * *

The plaster and wood frontage of the tavern had seen better days, and that was putting it mildly. The oaken sign creaked plaintively in the whispers of a western breeze; it's crudely painted depiction of a decapitated dragon head winking from the woodworm-given holes which perforated the timber. It gave the impression of an establishment that served sour ale and rank soup, the kind of backwards back-alley place which would be crawling with locals who resented outsiders and for half a silver coin would run them out of the door and have them cooling on a compost heap come sunrise.

Bishop couldn't imagine anyone wanting to step over that festering mat into the fucking dump which inevitably lay beyond unless they were utterly desperate. Fortunately, he was on the hunt for one who was exactly that – desperate and hanging on by the barest silken thread. Her trail had lead him straight here; careful as she'd tried to be in covering her tracks, he'd recognised at once the unmistakable signs of hoof prints hastily scuffed over, and leaves scattered where they ought not be. She must have dismounted several times and backtracked in order to kick Asgaroth's prints out of the soft dirt. Hah! He wanted to find her _more_ because she didn't want to be found. Once he'd reached the small village he'd lost her trail; the main road was parched, and it looked as though cattle were driven through it regularly.

His footfalls were dry crunches on the drought ravaged ground; what once had passed for dirt around here had hardened into desert-like compacted earth, immovable and impossible to plough. The people here had three, maybe four years tops before what scraps of good soil were left dried out too and then they'd be living on borrowed time. The pathetic halfwits would probably stay anyway, try to wait it out. He snorted derisively; you couldn't 'wait out' nature, She was fickle and headstrong and She'd tear you apart if you challenged Her. Still, they'd starve before they thought about leaving their homes and it would serve them right. They'd rather die in their homes then leave and live.

A memory, half-buried behind the alcohol and whores which had come since, rose up like an avenging angel. _Flames roared, sounding like the war-cries of demons. People screamed, children wailed through the heavy sound of crackling timber and falling houses. The more he shouted, the less they heard. They poured into the town hall as if it would shield them, all of them. They took in their infants, their elderly and their precious things. It burned too, of course. It burned with even more fury than the rest of the village. The heat was like a physical wall, all around him. And then the arrows came… _His steps didn't falter under the attack of his past, he was used to the memories by now and they didn't sting anymore. You fill in the blanks with deeds more terrible. You dull the past with the atrocities of today.

Finally he reached his destination, striding down the path around the side of the tavern, glaring into the ramshackle stables there, looking for something in particular. The stalls were full, but the feed bales were not. Horses stamped and snorted in the half-light and a low sickly hum of insects filled the air.

As he walked, he took in the inhabitants of the stalls one by one; the horses were badly cared for, though perhaps through inexperience rather than malice, an excuse which pissed him off even more. He gave his head a shake, rolling his eyes to the rotting ceiling as he passed a broken down mare, bones painfully evident across its emaciated frame. When it breathed, it made a thin keening noise like wounded stag caught in a hunter's snare. Bishop's next lungful of air was hissed out between clenched teeth and his footfalls halted before the pathetic sight. Its coat was matted and rank, a sticky discharge was weeping from an unattended abscess that festered malignantly at the tailhead, and its ribs were so prominent you could have used it as a musical instrument. A muscle in his cheek began to spasm as he set his jaw like a vice, anger blossoming in his chest and rising up to fill his head like a thick cloudy liquid.

A quick glance over his shoulder was all it took to make sure he was alone, and two quick footfalls took him face to face with it. He passed a hand down its nose carefully, a strange low crooning noise whispering past his lips as his gaze was fixed on the unfocused eyes of the beast and the wretchedness within them. Poor bastard. It was typical of these kinds of ass-backwards villagers; they'd ride them to death, in ignorance leave them to the mercy of the elements - mistreat them until a horse which should have lived thirty years ended up dying at ten. By the looks of this one, she'd be lucky to last the week.

For what seemed like a very long time, the horse just stared at him, through him. Its eyes spoke of a hundred torments which it did not understand – Bishop quirked a brow, and the once noble horse lowered its suffering head. He watched it for another eternity as something passed between man and beast, something unspoken. He nodded.

* * *

The small glass in front of her was empty again. Faith stared at it blankly, eyes fixed on the way the wood of the bar curved through the bottom of it. How many had she had? Three, maybe. Not enough, definitely. Her fingers curled around it almost protectively, and she tapped it on the dirty surface of the bar a few times to rouse the attention of the barkeep.

"Something I can _do _for you?" The voice was laden with so much innuendo she was surprised some wayward sex demon wasn't conjured up by it.

"Same again." Her voice was small and expressionless; she ignored his suggestive tone just as she disregarded the way his hand deliberately grazed hers as he slid the heavy green bottle across the bar and upturned it over her glass. Thick amber liquid splashed out to refill it and decorate the bar with tiny glistening drops. She dug her fingers into the pocket of the dark tunic she wore, pulling out a handful of gold pieces which clattered noisily as she upturned her palm on the besmeared surface before her. "Leave the bottle."

"You know…" The barkeep spoke slyly as he pushed the half-empty bottle next to the glass, and though Faith still hadn't raised her head or looked at him, she could see he'd leant his elbows on the bar and could feel him leaning closer; he smelled like rank garlic and sweat, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. One look at him as she entered the place had been enough; a middle-aged portly bachelor with more hair on his top lip than on his head and an overall which made Duncan's grubby apron look absolutely pristine. "If you're lookin' for something to chase your troubles away, you don't have to stick to the drink. I've got a cellar full of _special _potions that'll fix anything from a broken heart to a family feud."

To say she wasn't tempted would have been a lie; for a moment she considered it. After all, she was already intoxicating her mind with alcohol. She pursed her lips – she'd heard about dangerous and exotic herbs which if brewed the right way could induce states of euphoria or intense relaxation.

_Back in West Harbour, she, Bevil and Amie had found an extremely old and tattered book in the Starling home while they cleaned. It had been a tome of herbal medicine and some of the pages were dog-eared where Retta had marked places she'd been interested in. Those were all pages concerning easing births; there hadn't been a real healer before Brother Merring, but there had been girls of age and the view of the older women in the village had always been that a man had no place at a birth, especially not a wizard like Tarmas. But it had been the last pages which interested the young trio, the ones with great warnings and promises of dire consequences if the knowledge was abused. Of course, they were instantly fascinated. It was called 'Papaver Somniferum' and the pages suggested it could be made from the poppy flower. _

"_There's a bed of poppies behind Vera's house!" Amie had said excitedly._

"_Come on, you don't think we're actually going to do this, do you?" Bevil spoke in light tones, but the way he twisted his hands together gave away his nerves._

"_C'mon Starling, you're not scared are you?" A wicked gleam rose in Faith's eyes. When Retta returned and found them boiling poppy heads in orange peel with sugar, she knew exactly what they were up to. They'd all received such a hiding from her… And she'd told Daeghun, which saw Faith confined to the Farlong house for a whole three months. _

Pain, fresh as a new dawn blossomed in her chest at the memory and her heart lurched sickeningly in her chest. It washed over her, laughing cruelly and in that moment she wanted more than anything to lose herself in what the barkeep offered. It would be an absurdly easy way to carry her from the nightmare her life was rapidly becoming. It would be nice, for a little while, to be able to breathe again without thinking of those who no longer could. Just once. _Ah, but that's the rub, isn't it? Once wouldn't be enough, and twice would be too many. Before you know it, you'll be halfway to hell with no water to quell the flames. How will you avenge West Harbour then? How can you help anyone if you're doped up to your eyeballs? You're already taking bloody orders from Nasher; do you really want something else controlling you? _

"What do you say, sweetheart?" He spoke up again. "It's guaranteed to make you forget what haunts ya."

She lifted her head finally, dark locks framing her pale face and a look in her eyes which suggested that the barkeep had no idea what haunted her, and if he wanted to carry on sleeping at nights he should keep it that way. She lifted the glass to her lips.

"Go away." She muttered coldly into the glass, before taking a great swig which burned all the way to her stomach and settled there like a purring cat. There were things she still didn't understand - so many of them, and questions left unanswered. She knew she didn't have a hope in hell of facing the rising darkness without knowing the answers to them. She had to _know_ everything before she _risked_ everything. And people seemed unwilling to give her the information she so desperately needed. The neck of the bottle clinked against the now-blurred surface of the petite glass once again…

* * *

Bishop wiped the knife clean on the straw beneath his feet. The stables surrounding him carried a sudden tang on the air, a heavy coppery smell, and some of the horses shifted and fretted in their stalls. He shot them a withering look as he replaced it in its sheath, finally giving a shrug and turning back to the matter at hand. There in the last stall was what he'd been looking for – Asgaroth greeted him with a whiny of recognition. The steed of the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep looked like some horse-god in the midst of all of these wretched excuses for horses.

"Ah." He outstretched a hand and let the huge beast explore his palm with its whiskery nose. "Looks like I'm right again."

His steps carried him back to the front of the dive, and he shouldered open the door, the steady background of chatter and laughter spilling out onto the cobbled street just like the light which escaped in a yellow pool. The tavern was doing a brisk trade; men stood or sat in large groups, on feet or chairs upon the mouldy rushes covering the floor – the whole dire place smelled like old sweat and sex. Tired looking whores littered the walls like yesterdays waste, and some of the most enthusiastic of their lot had found marks in shadowed corners already.

His expression broke into a grin, a roguish flash of pearly-whites which only served to darken the eyes of a born bastard. He sank into a chair in the claiming shade of a free corner, casting a steely gaze from person to person, searching for that particular face.

This was a den of iniquity; there would be no righteous soul or virtuous heart to be found within these walls. The 'pure' huddle in the relative safety of hearth and home without need to encroach the black mastery of night - the wicked _revel _in it. That was why she had come, of course. It was why she couldn't look the paladin in the face either, not since Arvahn or the sight of the gutted West Harbour which had followed.

Bishop had never been the kind of man to whom insight came naturally, but a year around the once-bard Faith Kendall had - he had to grudgingly admit - opened up his eyes to some of the more subtle aspects of the human animal. So it was with some dark enjoyment that he realised he probably knew what was going through her splintered mind right now. _She thought it was her fault._

He actually sniggered to himself at that, a low cruel sound, raising a hand to conduct a bar wench his way arrogantly. She probably believed that spilling blood – a hell of a lot of blood – had cursed her, and the Gods had punished her by razing West Harbour to the ground. It was _beautiful_, he couldn't have asked for an easier opening. Oh, he'd play the crying shoulder for her, listen to her piteous whining, be the man the paladin couldn't be because he didn't know where she was. It was a step in the direction of trust. Brick by brick he'd tear down her walls. The perverted melody of shadow conducted the morally unconcerned to places such as this; the sun goes down, the rats come out, like a hornet swarm or a pack of wolves.

And him? Bishop? Hah - he was a stitch of black in the patchwork of humanity; he was who he'd always been, he didn't need to know any different. He didn't want to. He was built to be like this, it was in his blood, there was no going back now...

_ Ah_. A shift of movement at the packed bar and the gap in the patrons revealed a solitary figure. Yes, there _she_ was, in this pathetic excuse for a tavern, exactly where he thought he'd find her. His fingertips drummed a dull staccato rhythm on the cracked grain of the dirty table before him as he surveyed her form. She had her back turned, but there was no mistaking the girl. She had a certain bearing, a kind of presence that a particular type of idiot found irresistible. They flocked to her - sheep and halfwits, like tragic moths to her bright, bright flame. He smirked again. People were drawn to her, they followed her willingly. Stupid bastards would probably all die for her too if she asked. But she'd never ask. More fool her. Not him though, he'd been drafted into this idiotic crusade of hers. A debt is a debt, all the way to the end. _Yeah, and you've repaid it a hundred times over. You could have left after you found the farm girl… _No, he couldn't leave her yet. He had something to finish first.

He watched her sitting upon the worn timber of an ancient stool, hunched over a drink there at the bar, studying the amber contents of the small glass cradled between her palms as if it offered the answers to life itself. Groups of men nudged each other, and leered over her openly; of course, the way none of them went up to her suggested someone had already tried and got a rather brutal rebuff, probably delivered by her admirable left hook.

She'd shed her armour and sat in a black cotton tunic and trews of the same hue – he'd smiled at that, it looked like she'd tried to cast off any reminder of what had happened; as if loosing the reinforced leather would make any difference to the blood on her hands, and the smouldering shit-heap which was all that was left of West Harbour. He knew he'd be the only one to find her; the paladin had all the imagination of a plank of wood and would never think of her Highness slumming it down in some godforsaken tavern like this. He'd probably be checking the temples like the pious idiot he was. Bishop offered a snort of derision to the room in general - as if _praying_ ever got anyone anything.

This was the plan: be her confidant, her crying shoulder. Trick her into trusting him. Then turn it around, take what he wanted from her and be gone by the next sunrise. He wasn't fooled, it would take time, but this was something he was willing to invest in. _Bitch has to pay_. He sank into a seat, satisfied with just watching her for a while, and the bar wench finally sauntered to his side.

"Ale, in a real tankard, not those splinter-full excuses for mugs you hand out around here." He caught her elbow roughly as she moved to leave. "If it's not clean, I'll shove your fucking face into it until it is. Understand?"

She threw him a look as she swayed off - mixed lust and disgust - tossing her head so curly blonde hair whipped out behind her, making him smirk and slouch back in the chair. One arm was thrown behind his head, his legs spread as if he were announcing his 'alpha male' status to the rest of the tavern, watching as Faith sunk the drink in one needy gulp, and immediately grasped the quarter-full bottle beside her to refill her glass.

She half turned, as if sensing his burning gaze on her, and the lamplight caught her haunted features. _Damn, guilt and pain looked good on her_. She wore the guilt like a queen would, and despite the drink making her gaze glassy, she still looked every part the _'tragic hero'_, plucked out by the gods, touched by destiny and all that fucking bullshit they all believed. Her hair fell in glossy waves around a pale heart-shaped façade, her lips pursed resolutely and still whetted from the liquor, the tunic peeled open to just below her collar bone to counter the warmth of the place and the alcohol, her face was flushed slightly.

The wench was back, holding a clean tankard full to the brim with ale which tasted just as sour as he'd expected. With a grunt of disgust, he spat his mouthful at her feet, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. She started to say something, but he rose, flicking a half-copper from his thumb onto her tray as he passed, muttering a brief 'it's all it was worth' as he went.

* * *

Faith upended the bottle again. The liquid slunk into the glass seductively, and she found herself wondering why she didn't do this more often. It felt good. It masked the pain until it was nothing but a tiny whispering voice at the back of her mind. _It's your fault. You threw away your blood innocence, you killed for a cause you shouldn't be fighting for. And the natural order has punished you in the most effective way it could have done. It has severed your ties to anything normal. It has destroyed your heart. It has burned West Harbour. It's your fault. _

She could feel the alcohol taking hold of her now. It wound around her mind, making her thoughts fuzzy and difficult to decipher; it gave a warm glow to her limbs and made her want to dance, made her want to sing, made her want to be a bard again. She was a better person since she turned her back on the songs, but honestly – was she happy?

The stool next to her made a low groan as it was pulled up. She braced herself for the inevitable barrage of sleaze.

"You didn't think I'd miss this, did you?"

She knew that voice. Of course she did. It was somehow worse than the attentions of the mindless inhabitants of the tavern. She let her head bow a little further towards the amber filled glass, and a low breath escaped from her lips.

"I knew I wouldn't be able to throw you off the scent." She shook her head, almost imperceptivity.

"Then what was the point in trying?" Bishop quirked a finger at the barkeep, pointing to one of the bottles behind the filthy bar.

"Shit, I don't know. Maybe I thought you'd see I'd tried to hide my trail, and take the fucking hint." Faith lifted her head, turning to look at him. Their gazes locked like two thunderbolts colliding.

"I'm doing you a favour. No one knows who you are here, princess," Bishop spoke in a low growl, after a brief pause.

"Good." She muttered, pouring herself another glass of amber liquid.

"Not if these men decide you'd look better naked and tied to a bed." He shot back, grasping the bottle she was drinking from and taking a slug straight from the neck. Gods, it was bad. But it was strong too, and that was probably why she was drinking it.

"Sure. Because a handful of farmers could overpower _me_." The arrogance in her voice was astounding. And hot as hell.

"In this state _Grobnar_ could overpower you."

"Fuck you, Bishop."

"Maybe later." He smirked into his drink. "I knew a girl once." She threw him a look so poisonous he couldn't help from laughing. "I knew a girl. Used to get late night visits from her Daddy, drove her half mad. By the time I met her she'd been working the streets for years. I was a bad influence on her. On my advice she went back to Daddy and cut him down in the old hovel she'd called home. Sliced off bits and pieces here and there to make her point."

"What's _your _point?" Faith quirked a brow.

"Afterwards, she couldn't take it. Knowing what she'd done. It ate away at her." He turned his head to stare at her, amber flecked eyes burning. "They found her hanging from a hempen rope down in what used to be the Beggars Nest. She'd ripped her wrists open too, just to be sure."

"That's a beautiful story." Faith muttered sarcastically.

"Don't let that be you."

There was a shocked silence. After a moment, she turned her head to look at him, brows knitted together and a strange hollow gnawing in the pit of her stomach. He'd turned back to his drink now, as if nothing had happened, but for a moment there… It wasn't bluntness, and he wasn't just being frank. In those five words, he'd shown more unguarded feeling than she believed he was capable of. She wasn't sure if it was the words themselves, or the way he'd said them; he'd spoken quietly, almost mournfully, and she felt like the barstool had been knocked out from under her.

"I… Are you _worried _about me?" Normally she would have said something sharp and biting in return, but the drink and his uncharacteristic concern had disarmed her.

"Well now," Bishop watched her from the corner of his eye, that all-too familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "Was that a straightforward question I heard? You should drink more often." He threw back the contents of his glass, hissing out a breath as the cheap liquor burned a path down his throat, pausing to refill both their drinks before answering. "Maybe I am. There's only so much a person can take. I don't know who you pissed off, princess, but someone's using you to see just how far they can push you before…"

"Before?"

He turned to look at her properly as she said that, seeing the vulnerability etched into her eyes, the burden of it all seeming to physically press down on her so that her shoulders sagged towards the bar. Or perhaps that was the drink. Somewhere inside, a little part of him laughed – this was proving to be easier than he thought. She was devouring every little piece of 'compassion' he offered, and coming back for more.

"Doesn't matter. They're fools if they think they can break you." He banished his gaze to the drink in his hands, just like he'd seen the paladin do so many times - as if he was being so earnest he couldn't bear to look at her. "Some people find their breaking point and shatter. Some people run from it. You'll just… carry on." That might have been a bit much. She was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before. Time to perfect the apparent 'switch' back to being an asshole, give her that little spark of hope that he might be a good person somewhere deep down in his heart - he really shouldn't think things like that, it made him want to laugh out loud. "Yeah, well. You're too damn stubborn to turn around, not that you ever would – it wouldn't be _right._" That last word was laden with enough sarcasm to sink a ship.

A small smile curved her lips as she watched him, a warmth spreading through her mind, a kind of beacon in the depths of this darkness. Sometimes help came in the strangest forms and she couldn't imagine a stranger one than the world-weary ranger sitting beside her. She nudged his shoulder with her own, and grinned at him.

"Just when I think I've got you figured out…"

"Yeah."

He smirked as he watched her slug back another drink and clumsily refill the glass, the low light casting his features into sharp relief, shadows dancing across the strong line of his jaw and making the amber flecks in his eyes dance. Faith found herself wishing for the hundredth time this month that they were back at the keep. She missed it more than she could ever put into words. It had become home a long time ago, and she yearned for the soothing strength it imbued her with. The stones were hers, they sang to her blood and coaxed her back; the lands called to her and hurried her return. She missed the comfort of an actual bed. For the first week they'd been in the keep, she'd had to sleep on the floor next to the bed – too many nights spent shivering and uncomfortable in the wilds had made the sublime comfort of her master suite bed strange and alien to her.

Now she yearned for it when they were away, just like she pined for the company of those who were not travelling with her. She missed Neeshka's wicked humour, and Sand's particular brand of clever dry wit. Khelgar, Casavir and Shandra were on the road with her, as well as Bishop – but she found she missed them too. She'd been so distant with them since West Harbour, especially Casavir. A pang of regret shot through her heart at that. She'd treated him terribly, leaving his questions unanswered and his offers of help unsatisfied. It was awful, and it wasn't his fault but his shining light beautified everything around him, everything but her. It just showed off the blood all over her, covering her hands and staining her eyes. So here she was, in this godforsaken place, talking to someone who knew a little something more about blood.

"Tell me something," Bishop had procured another bottle of the eye-watering liquor, and was watching her carefully as he opened it. "Why'd you give it up?"

"You'll have to be a bit more specific," Faith pushed her glass towards him.

"Being a bard." The liquor sloshed indulgently into her glass, and then his own.

"You know why," She ran her fingers through her hair irritably. Why the in the hells was he bringing that up now? "I wasn't about to win against the King of Shadows by singing at him. It's not enough. I needed to learn how to kill." The last words were wrapped in bitterness.

"Not arguing that point, princess. I want to know why you gave it up, when you could have used it." His gaze was intense now, and she found herself uncomfortable under it, as if he'd see through her if she lied.

"I couldn't be both." She muttered, taking a sip from the tiny glass. Gods, the stuff was awful. Better to throw it back in one foul motion, oblivion was the goal here, not appreciation.

"Bullshit." He spat, and she turned her head sharply to look at him. "You think you're the first bard who wished they had something more than a witty jibe to throw at enemies? There are plenty of warrior-bards, princess. Difference is, they're smart enough to play to their strengths."

"I…"

"You've been play-fighting for seven months. You were a bard for… how long?"

"I started when I was fourteen." She was looking at him in amazement, and the shock of hearing _him_ try to _help_ her in his own way kept the anger and the indignation at bay. "Eleven years." She added, as he looked at her expectantly.

"Are you getting it?" He rolled his lean shoulders, tilting his head to make his neck give a _crack_, before fixing her with a look he made a guile-free as he could. Here's the trick, get her to reclaim the bard inside and the passion which came along with it would eventually have to overflow into something. He'd make sure _he_ was that something. It was so _easy. _"You'll never be as good a fighter as you were a bard. Get your shit together, and use what you're good at. Let's face it, the fight you've got brewing? You're going to want to come out swinging with everything you've got."

"Yes, but…" She knew what he said made sense. The fact that it was coming from him was shocking, but it didn't make it any less true. "I was too easily distracted back then, I can't afford to be 'just a walking impulse.'" She spoke bitterly, and turned in surprise as he broke off into peals of laughter.

"Who the hell said you were that?" He asked when he'd stopped laughing. "The paladin?"

"Elanee."

"Well, we're _all_ walking impulses, princess. That's what makes us human." Bishop watched her face closely without appearing to. She was hanging on his words like a woman dangling from a cliff holds onto the edge. "We need food and shelter and sex and warmth and every little thing that comes in between. Why the hell are you taking advice on how to be a human from an elf anyway?"

"She… seemed to know what she was talking about." Faith felt uncommonly foolish all of a sudden, even through the haze of alcohol which had seeped into her vision now, making everything look blurred and soft around the edges.

"Yeah, because she's got _everything_ figured out, right?" He snorted into his glass, before noticing it was empty and frowning at it. The tavern had quietened down some, there was still a buzz of conversation lingering, but the absence of cheap perfume on the air suggested the whores had called it a night, or taken to the streets. "Look, princess. We've all only got so long to play this mortal coil, right? People like me and you, we get even less time. Just live. We feast, we fuck, we fall down – we're human! Elves get whole lifetimes longer to live than us, the bastards, so you won't see them reeling off pointless shows of 'feeling'. They don't have to rush like we do."

"What's your excuse then?" Faith's words came out slightly slurred, and for a moment a comical expression of mild surprise registered on her face because of that. Her head was spinning in a hundred different directions, mostly because of the drink, but also because she'd never heard Bishop speak like this. Ever. She'd never thought of him to be the kind of man who'd make an impassioned speech – much less a _good _one. That part of her inside which was forever a fifteen year old girl giggled and twirled in her mind, the part of her which had written boys names on the parchment she studied from, and hung around Webb Mossfield back in West Harbour. That annoying little part of her which said "He likes you!" in a sing-song voice, and then giggled some more.

"What?"

"Have you been taking advice from the elves too?" She threw back her head giddily and laughed at the sharp expression on his face. "You're not exactly forthcoming with 'pointless shows of feeling'. Except tonight, why is that?" She reached out for her glass, but misjudged the distance and her knuckles knocked into it, sending it spinning over the bar to smash on the other side. She pulled a face. "Oops…"

The barkeep muttered something and shot Faith a poisonous look, crossing his great fleshy arms. She attempted to smile charmingly at him, but it resembled an alarming toothy grimace instead.

"You're drunk." Bishop's voice held a laugh in it, and it felt so much like good-natured camaraderie that when she looked at him for a moment there was genuine fondness in her eyes. The beast sat up and roared inside him.

"I don't feel drunk." She lent her cheek against her fist, elbow teetering upon the bar. With her free hand, she walked her fingers up his arm, making strange little 'poot' noises as each fingertip fell. She caught the expression of detached amusement on his face, and dissolved into laughter again. "As soon as I get up though, I'm going to realise I am, and fall right on my ass."

"Ah. Well now, you know what we have to do then?"

"Yep." She grinned vacantly, her cheeks flushed, saluting him with his own glass. "Carry on drinking."

"No. Time to go." Bishop got to his feet, tossing a coin onto the bar as payment for the last bottle. Pretending to 'open up' had worked more sweetly than he could have dreamed; already he could see she looked at him differently. Of course, he'd have to make sure she stopped drinking now, or she wouldn't remember any of it tomorrow and what would be the point in that?

"Booo!" She planted her feet on the ground, turning to flounce with mock imperiousness out of the door. That was the plan, at least. She got to the third step, when her ankle hooked around the leg of a chair, and she found herself sprawled on the floor, arms spread and with one foot still in the air. After a brief moment, the chair thudded down on top of her. "…Bollocks."

* * *

"I can't do it, Faith!" Amie let out an exasperated sigh, and threw herself into the one comfortable chair in the Farlong home. The cushions were old and well used, but a cloud of dust flew up as the blonde-haired girl dropped into it.

Faith grinned, letting out a breezy laugh which was laden with harmonics as it danced in the air.

"Of course you can. Anyone can sing." Her hands gripped Amie's wrist and she pulled her friend to her feet. Amie resisted for a moment, but gave in as Faith gave a whine of impatience. "Start again. Breathe from all the way down."

"_Cross my heart from your list_

_Of broken bones and bleeding wrists…"_

Amie's voice was sweet and high; it lifted to the strong rafters and mingled with a strange tinkle of bells somewhere on the breeze – far away, but so near. A tiny furrow appeared at Faith's brow, and her friend ceased her melody. "Oh, gods, I got it wrong again didn't I?"

"What? No…" The dark haired girl gave her head a little shake, as if to physically dispel the strange sound from her mind. "That was lovely. You're really getting it."

"No, I'm just following you." Amie's eyes twinkled. She was beautiful, everyone knew it – she was beautiful in a way Faith could never be, because the only person who _didn't _know about Amie's fairness was Amie herself. "Teach me the rest of the song! This is more fun than dying with Tarmas' spells!"

"What?" Faith rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. She felt so tired suddenly. Did Amie say '_dying_'?

Amie looked with concern at her friend, blonde hair falling across her porcelain skin as she tilted her head. Was it Faith's imagination or did she look pale suddenly? "Are you alright? Have you had enough yet, Faith? You don't have to carry on, you know. This isn't your job."

"No, it is. I have to do this. I don't have a choice." Faith took a breath, looking back to her friend and gave her a smile. "Sorry, I don't know what I'm saying. I mean that I want to teach you. I'm a bard, remember? You know what we do the best?"

"Lie!" Amie trilled happily.

"No, we…" A sickening sensation suddenly engulfed Faith, like a hook had been attached to her soul and was pulling it in all directions at once. It fled after a moment, as quickly as it had appeared. "I… Yes, the song. I can't remember why I wrote it…"

"The chessboard, of course." Amie said, nodding.

"The chessboard?"

"Don't you know the board by now?" Amie gave a little laugh and grabbed Faith's hands happily. "Most of the pawns were crushed! Now you have to carry on. Teach me the song."

Faith stared at the blonde-haired girl for a long moment. Something was nagging at her, at the back of her mind, trying to force its way into her thoughts. It was horrible; it was something she didn't want to remember. It was important, she knew it, but she stubbornly ignored it. She was happy here. She summoned up the song from her memory and took a breath:

"_It isn't over, at least not for me._

_It isn't over, not even in my dreams. _

_I've fought too many wars inside myself. _

_But I know you don't really care._

_I'm between the sword and the wall without the heart you stole from me. _

_It isn't over. _

_How long will it be before I break down? _

_It isn't over and you know it. _

_What else can I do? _

_It isn't over yet. _

_There are still too many monsters in my world. _

_We both know it isn't over and it will never be."_

But she wasn't singing. She was screaming. Just screaming words. She stopped as the echo bounced back to her, realising she'd screwed shut her eyes. Lids darkened with black kohl fluttered open as she expected to see Amie staring at her. But the world had changed.

The caverns were colder than the underside of a leaf in winter. Winds whipped all around her, whistling past the rock and scattering loose shale; it moaned like a lover scorned, or a wounded animal dying alone. In front of her, upon a granite pedestal, a chessboard glittered and gleamed. A frown crossed her face and she took a tentative step towards it, casting fathomless eyes over its ornate surface. The board itself had been carved from pure marble – white as the driven snow, shot through with obsidian for the squares of black and it all shone, shone like a dying star in the midst of creation. It was empty.

Faith blinked, and suddenly it had changed. In the midst of these halls of stone, the chessboard was carved from _wood_. A gnarled tree wound up to be its pedestal, a great kink in the trunk where the board rose like a living thing. As she watched, dismay and fear rising in her chest, pieces began to grow on the squares. The shadows around her shifted and danced, they hissed and jeered, spat and scorned. And then a figure approached from the far end of the cave. It was a man, and he was beautiful. He wore only a pair of dark cotton trousers, slung low about lean hips. Muscles tensed and rippled across a powerful torso, and his face would have been the raising of empires or the drowning of oceans, all framed by shoulder-length black hair. He paused before the board, where the dark pieces held court. She felt frozen to the spot, more rooted than the tree before them. He made a sweeping bow, and gestured to the board.

"_**Play**_." His voice was deep and resonant in the dark; it was not a request.

Unbidden, Faith's feet began to move until she stood directly opposite him. Her mouth was dry, and her hands shook. Carefully, she moved them out of sight, laced her fingers behind her back, staring at the floor.

"I don't know how." She whispered, her voice sounding small and insignificant against his.

"_**Then I shall move for you**_." After he spoke, whispers followed. They echoed around her head, inside her mind; she thought she might be able to understand what they were saying, if only they wouldn't speak all at once. "_**Do you not wish to see how it ended?**_"

Faith lifted her head fearfully, letting her gaze fall upon the board before her. The board blazed in hues of grey and silver, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to see the outcome. The black king held the white queen in checkmate. The white castles had been taken, and lay broken next to the board. The black pawns had all been wiped away, lying desolately upon their sides. One black knight had been shattered; the other had been placed off the board, close to the middle. The two white knights… One was smaller than the other and a furrow dug into her brow properly at this. The smaller one lay snapped in half, surrounded by a fallen group of black pawns. The larger white knight had fallen directly in front of the white queen, as if pointlessly barring the path of the black king. Faith's eyes searched the board once more – where were the white bishops? One lay discarded on the white side of the board, the other still stood – but it stood upon a square of obsidian. She tilted her head, confused. Some of the white pawns remained but the others…

"_**Do you see now?**_ The man's voice was suddenly harsh, and cold. Faith felt a chill go through her, an icy blast which burnt at her skin and made her cry out.

"Who are you?" She managed to speak through the sudden biting freeze, through the winds which blew in from nowhere and whipped the white cotton shift around her frame.

"_**I am all that was left. I am a memory." **_His tone had changed, it became soft. The man gave a smile and it was etched from sadness. _**"I am the sacrifice which had to be made."**_

"I don't understand." Faith tried to edge backwards, tried to turn her head to look for escape, but the eyes of the man held her in place like a doe frozen before a hunter.

"_**For over one hundred nights, I burned for them." **_Intensity crept into his voice, and darkness began to blossom in his eyes. _**"I burned into nothing but a recollection in the minds of ghosts."**_

"I…" Something stirred in her and urged her to remember. It hit her like a thunderbolt and she felt her heart give a painful jump. "You're him, aren't you? You're the man who became the guardian?"

"_**No." **_The darkness seemed to ebb from his eyes and his gaze became distant for a fleeting moment. _**"I have already told you, he does not exist anymore. I am a memory of that man. I am spun from the dwarf who began this, from the girl who loved me, and from the elf who taught me." **_He stirred as if waking from a dream and the chill reclaimed his gaze. _**"You seek that which he became. You seek the abandoned Guardian."**_

"I have to… I'm supposed to stop it." She shrank back as he advanced towards her, his movements graceful enough to verge on being hypnotic.

"_**You will die." **_

"Everyone dies."

"_**You will die screaming." **_He stopped a mere foot from her and his eyes blazed with black veins. _**"If you love me, if you obey me, I will protect you. You need never be alone in the dark again. I will build you a fortress of bone. You will answer to no one."**_

"No one but you, you mean." The words were out before she could stop them. Shadows danced and hissed around her and she wrenched her gaze from his, staring instead at the pulsing ground.

"_**You will be an Empress. They will fear and love you. Do you wish death? Or will you take my hand and let me show you your dreams?"**_

He reached for her, extending a hand towards her shivering frame. She looked up, fear and elation dancing in her heart, met two eyes which now burned darker than anything she'd ever seen and lifted her hand…

"Faith?"

She bolted up in bed, sitting with her head thrown back as she gulped down air as if she hadn't breathed for a week. Perspiration glistened on her brow and soaked the sheets she had slept in. Someone was grasping her shoulders firmly and as her eyes flew open she tried to focus on the figure leaning over her. Finely honed muscles gleamed in the half-light, etched into a torso you could have bounced gold pieces off. Was she still in the dream?

No, because that was Bishop.

Wait. _Bishop?_

She had a fraction of a second to wonder in panic where she was and why Bishop was standing over her bed wearing nothing but loose cotton trews and an expression of mild amusement.

And why in the nine hells was she _naked? _

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…_

And then the headache hit her like the wrath of the gods.

* * *


	5. The Wrong Way

**Chapter Five – The Wrong Way.**

**Rated M for language.**

* * *

It is said that there are particular places of solemn serenity in this war-weary world. The story goes that if you happen to find such a place and you know the right way to listen, you can hear the ebb and flow of creation itself. In the most remote fields of Ashanath it might be possible to hear the soil feed the grass, or listen to the relentless march of new constellations being born and old ones blazing their brief, bewitching supernovas before death. These places are secret and ancient, and none but the most devoted followers of tranquillity stumble across them.

But nature thrives on balance. Somewhere, a young queen delivers a healthy heir, but the blood runs out and she never sees her son take his first breath. Nature is not cruel; it is the deep justice to which all creatures must eventually answer. The peace is counterbalanced by the chaos; the spots of serenity are allowed to exist by the presence of places of pandemonium. As the pale rim of dawn encircled the lands, one such bastion of bedlam shone out rather more fiercely than others…

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!_

Faster than a cobra strikes, Faith bolted backwards off the rickety bed, the fingers of one hand grasping the off-white sheet around her desperately. Bishop shook his head, amusement in the curl of his lips and made to speak, but Faith thrust an arm out in front of her, palm outwards, halting the words before they had a chance to be formed. She backed off frantically, stepping on a corner of the fabric as eager as she was to put as much distance as possible between herself and the barely dressed ranger. She lurched, but regained her footing, steadying herself as she wildly tried to remember how she'd ended up here.

"Why in the NINE HELLS am I naked?" She couldn't even look at Bishop; instead she busied her eyes with the grime-ridden floorboards beneath her and tried to ignore their demands to fall from her skull. She clutched the blankets around her like a protective shield, searching for the question she had to have answered. "Did you… Who undressed me?"

"Trixie did, after you passed out." Bishop's voice was calm; the kind of tone a person would use to soothe a spooked horse.

"Trixie…" She shook her head, pressing her palm against her brow; she could feel the pumping of her heart in her ears and temples as the headache gripped her like a steel vice. "Who the fuck is Trixie?"

"She's the bloody bar wench!"

_Screw this. _Bishop's patience snapped. After last night and all the fucking self-control he'd mustered, he'd be damned if it all went to the hells now. A few long strides were all it took for him to cross the distance between them, his hands firm as they clasped her shoulders. She wouldn't look at him.

"Faith!" His voice came out more harshly than he had intended, and he felt her wince as whatever hangover she was nursing objected to the noise. He tried again, this time careful to keep his voice gentle. "Faith. I know what you're thinking. But even I draw the line at sex with an unconscious woman."

She lifted her head, finally meeting his gaze with her own, searching his eyes as if trying to spy some glimmer of a lie within them. _Now, what would the paladin do here? _Not that he'd ever be in a room alone with Her Highness anyway – it wouldn't be _proper _- but Bishop imagined that the bloody idiot would perhaps give her a shy smile like _this, _and then shrug his shoulders almost imperceptivity like _this_. He felt her relax, saw the wild panic start to drain from her face as common sense and logic won out over confusion and chaos.

He couldn't lie to himself. It had been difficult as hell to see her stretched out beneath that sheet – it was so thin, he could see every line and curve of her body – see her writhe and turn as sleep took her to nightmarish places, her dreams no doubt intensified by the alcohol she'd sunk. She wouldn't have been able to stop him. He could have done anything to her, and he'd have enjoyed it – for a little while. That was the quick path to a temporary solution; he didn't want her like that. She had to want him first; he had to see the passion in her eyes, and feel it in her body beneath him. You didn't ruin a woman by raping her, and besides, what the fuck was the fun in having her if she was passed out? Besides, she'd have known when she woke up. Yeah, he'd watched her for a long time, carefully crafting his next move, waiting for this moment when she'd awake confused and possibly a little bit afraid, safe in the knowledge that he was the only one here to comfort her. He'd tell her what to do, and she'd be grateful for a voice of reason – however improbable the source – through all her despair. It was the logical next step that she'd start to trust him, and then sooner or later he'd be the _only_ one she trusted. He'd make sure of that. Eventually, she'd do what he told her to do – whatever he told her to do.

Faith tried to swallow, but her mouth was so dry it was painful. She'd drunk far too much, and the alcohol had worked wonders in dehydrating her. Her body still felt unpredictable, and treacherously the hand which was not busy grasping the sheets around her snaked up, gripping Bishop's wrist to steady herself as he held her shoulders.

"Come on."

He steered her gently to the bed, and helped her to sit, reaching across her to grasp a glass which sat on the battered bedside table. The water was warm and tasted oddly bitter, but she drank it gratefully, feeling the relief sink through her as the terrible thirst was soothed. Bishop sank into a crouch before her, as if a supplicant searching for absolution. _Perfect. _

"Bishop?" Faith placed the glass carefully back on the nightstand, taking particular note of the tiny white granules which swam in the dregs of the water.

"Yeah."

"Why did she remove _all _of my clothes?"

He stood abruptly and turned from her, as if wounded by the implied accusation in her words. Subtle muscle tone shifted in his back, and Faith found her eyes drawn to the map of scars which crisscrossed his shoulder blades. A flogging, perhaps. The thumping in her head went on like an unrelenting war drum, but she cast her sights here and there, at length spotting her clothes on the floorboards beside the far side of the bed; her sai had been placed on top of the neat pile. A wry smile began to curve her lips.

"I don't know, Faith. Obviously she has the same lofty opinion of me that you do."

"And the reason you're half naked in the same room as me?" She spared a moment to make sure he had no intention of turning around, then cautiously leant backwards across the bed, one hand reaching out to seize the leather bound hilt of a sai.

"You _asked_ me to stay, princess. Who am I to deny a lady in distress?" A generous layer of sarcasm escorted his words. "You expected me to sleep in my armour? This isn't exactly the wilderness."

"I have one more question, and Bishop? This is a tricky one."

Bishop let a shrug roll from his shoulders and began to turn around. An abrupt and remarkably _insistent_ razor-sharp pain at the base of his spine made him freeze in place. He felt her breath, suddenly behind his ear.

"One push and a quick twist is all it would take for me to turn you from a man to a _head_ on a _stick_." Faith hissed her words venomously at the back of his head, escalating the pressure of the sais tip ever so slightly to underscore her seriousness. "Have I driven home my point? So to speak, of course. Just say yes."

"Yeah." Bishop shook his head imperceptibly, clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw started to spasm. He'd underestimated her again. That was his fault, so he'd give her this little victory. Somewhere in a primal part of his brain, a lick of fear sat up and demanded attention – he'd seen first hand what she could do with those unusual outlander weapons, and now the point of one of them was digging so far into the small of his back that he wasn't sure if she'd broken skin yet, or if that was still to come.

"Good. You'll be pleased to know that I believe you when you say you didn't _interfere _with me in any way. I really don't think that of you, more fool me. Now pay attention because this is the all-important question." She narrowed her eyes and the pressure of the sais point was wound up a notch. "What did you put in that water?"

"What?" _Damn. _"I poached some of Duncan's alcohol purgative about a hundred fucking years ago. Been carrying it around with me ever since. I _thought _you needed it more than I did."

"Wrong answer, try again." Faith spat, pressing the wicked tip a mere breath from skin breaking point. "I've hadSand's good old purgative before. _That _tastes mostly like lavender. One more chance, sweetheart. If you don't tell the truth this time you'll never have to worry about buying breeches ever again."

"Calm down, will you?" _Damn, damn, damn! _"It _is_ an alcohol purgative; it's just… got a little something extra in it. Before you go all 'crazy bitch' on me, let me explain." He didn't wait for her to reply, just forged ahead before she had a chance to do, well, anything rash. His mind had been racing as she spoke, carefully weighing up the right thing to say. This needed special handling, perhaps another glimpse of the man she thought he could be was in order? "I had the damn purgative with me, but after I saw the state you were in last night, I suppose I wanted to make you feel better. You try too hard to put everything right, and the one thing you had no control over you're taking way too personally."

"It was West Harbour, Bishop! If that's not personal, what the hell is?" In a clearer frame of mind, perhaps she would have broken skin now, when the agony rose in her like the noonday sun over a silent battlefield. But he'd made her think about it again, with that thought came a thousand others and the sudden guilt rolled in her as low-laying mist on a meadow. She had laughed. She had drunk, and smiled and most importantly of all _she had forgotten. _Last night, she no longer remembered West Harbour. She had _laughed_ and they were still dead. They were still unavenged. Her grip on the weapon slackened.

"You forget how the enemy thinks." Bishop let out a long, overdue breath in gratitude as felt the excruciating pressure against his skin relent. He thought about turning around, but the point of her sai still hovered near his skin. It wasn't a good idea. "You haven't been close to that backwater village for a year and a half. You said yourself: the damn _keep_ is your home now. If they were sending a message to you, they'd have gone for that."

She was silent for an unpleasantly long time. Bishop glared furiously at the ground, anger and impatience starting to get the better of him, yet he hardly dared breathe lest he spooked her and she made good on her threat. In his peripheral vision he could just make out one bare foot, completely motionless behind him. At least he had some frame of reference for where she was; if she put her weight on the balls of her feet, ready to strike, he'd just have to jump for it. _Fuck, he was stupid! _ He _deserved_ to get skewered through the spine for underestimating her. It would only have taken another five minutes to find a wooden mug; there were enough of those in this shit-ridden excuse for a tavern, after all. He could have avoided all of this. Still, there might yet be some way he could work it to his advantage.

Faith stared numbly at the back of Bishop's head, her body making a thousand demands of her. Her limbs ached, her head pounded and the sun streaming through the gaps in the shutters made thin slices of hellish glare on the floorboards. Broken fragments of the night before gambolled through her mind: the leer of the barman, the sting of the alcohol; the disarming way Bishop had spoken to her and his quiet but powerful urgings for her to reclaim the bard in her soul. Gods help her, but he'd made a lot of sense. It was madness to limit her strength; in fact, it was probably suicide. After all, it's not as if singing a few war songs would break her resolve; she wouldn't fall back into bad old habits, she was a better than that these days. The very thing she had denied might turn out to be the detail which saved her life and she couldn't afford to take that gamble of suppressing it. It wasn't just her own life in her hands.

"Fair enough." She whispered, after an eternity.

Bishop felt the sai move from an aggressive place and glanced over his shoulder cautiously. She watched him steadily and he saw no opening in her eyes which would suggest she felt even slightly guilty about what she'd just done. It looked like he'd have to chalk this one down as a point to her. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a long hard breath through them and turned fully, one arm twisting back to investigate the painful little area her sai had been, fighting down the urge to backhand her savagely onto the bed and thoroughly enjoy teaching her a lesson about who was really in control here. Instead, he forced himself to smile.

"Pleased with yourself?" He asked, folding his arms across his bare chest. One of her brows quirked in response, and a quizzical expression crossed her features so he continued: "You managed to get me at a disadvantage, princess. You're hung over, disorientated and…" He reached over, winding his finger into the loose portion of sheet above her stomach. "…Naked. And you still managed best me. Bravo."

"I won't tell anyone about that, if you promise to keep quiet about my offer to show you the 'Unbridled Passion' dance." She screwed up her eyes, suddenly grinning, and shook her head. The relentless drumming in her skull was beginning to subside; it seemed like Bishop's purgative worked fast.

"Well now, look who's starting to remember last night." He matched her smile and sunk into an elaborate bow, one arm thrust out in a perfect representation of courtly manners. "You have a deal."

Faith laughed, a genuine sound which seemed to lift some of the grey from the thoroughly depressing room. Bishop rolled his eyes at her in a passable imitation of good-natured exasperation, before noticing a distant look rush like storm clouds into her eyes. Her smile began to fade.

"And there you go again." Ah, shit. It was too late, and he knew it. Her mind had gone back to the keep, and all the consequences and responsibilities were standing up to be counted. But for a moment there, he'd had her. He had his foot in the door now.

"They'll all be worried."

"Fuck 'em."

She threw him a warning look in reply, busying herself with picking her clothes from the floor with her free hand and tossing them on the bed. She turned back to look pointedly at him and then the door. He threw up his hands and backed off; his roguish smile was a flash of white.

"You don't need to say it."

He retrieved his undershirt from the back of the chair he'd slept in and pulled it over his head, muscles tensing down a lean torso. Faith watched out of the corner of her eye, but cleared her throat and turned away before he noticed. That was the thing about Bishop, every reaction she had to him was purely primeval. He pushed her buttons, and some of them really, really wanted to be pushed. The bastard was fascinating. He didn't belong indoors and there was something ferocious and breathtaking about that – even in the huge rooms of the keep he looked like an untamed animal trapped in a cage far too small for him. If she tried to put her finger on it, maybe she'd say there was something so magnificently dangerous about him that you'd rather be with him than be out of harm's way. That didn't make any real sense, of course – but nothing much did around Bishop and that was why she told herself she'd never scratch this particular itch. It was one hell of a pity but truth was the man was a lit fuse. Sooner or later all those years of his past which held whatever had made him into Bishop would crystallise inside him, and he'd self destruct. She watched as he pulled and buckled his armour into place.

"I'll see to the horse." He turned back to her, nodding once before striding from the room and out of sight.

Faith turned to the window beside the bed and gazed stoically at the ramshackle collection of huts and homes which made up this farming village. Smoke curled from chimneys, branded pigs rooted in the streets and the houses bore the tell-tale grey colouring of places whose owners could only afford watered down paint. Apprehension was beginning to twist in her gut, and she let out an exasperated breath at herself, clouding the dirty glass before her. Why should she feel nervous? She was the Captain, wasn't she? Gods, even Nasher took days off now and again; she deserved a break just as much as the next morally dubious, grief-stricken but selfish Knight. She stared at her reflection in the glass – heart-shaped and too pale - watching her with accusatory eyes; a dirty face in the mirror masquerading as her. Oh well. It was so early that only the cow herders had begun their daily work; the break of dawn had only been a short time ago. Time to go home.

* * *

The night was freezing. The weather had dropped suddenly and unexpectedly, howling in from the north as if it carried portents of ill news to the gathered crowd illuminated by the many flickering lights of Crossroad Keep's courtyard. Some paced anxiously, others watched solemnly and two figures moved purposefully.

Casavir placed the well cared for saddle on the back of his chestnut gelding, his mind working a thousand miles a second. He should never have allowed Shandra to talk him into returning to the keep to check if Faith was there before searching for her. Vain hope such as that had cost lives before. He'd be damned if it would follow a parallel pattern today. Wherever she might be, he felt sure that she needed his help. She was grieving, and although he thought he might go another twenty years without fully understanding her, he did know enough to recognise the turmoil which had been blighting her heart of late. That kind of inner struggle did not respond well to further anguish; he was afraid for her, he feared she might do something… irrational. '_Or someone,' _a treacherous inner voice murmured at the back of his mind. He worked the straps adeptly, his jaw tightened to a strong line, a days worth of stubble shadowing it.

"I don't understand." Shandra's voice came from behind him, and he paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. "Where has she gone? It doesn't make any sense."

The paladin shook his head and turned back to the work at hand. He was being unnecessarily cruel, he knew; Shandra had not intended to endanger Faith, she had only sought a comforting solution to a troubling problem, but that did not bring Faith any closer to being found.

"She's broken up inside, lass." Khelgar rumbled, standing on the barrel he always used to fix his modified saddle to the bad-tempered stallion he'd insisted on taking. Truth was, the dwarf hated horses and people of his stature were not predisposed to riding them, but this was important. "What would you do if someone told you your Highcliff had been all but burned to a crisp, eh?"

"Well, yes, but…" Shandra let out a sudden yell of frustration. "I thought she'd come to me if she needed help."

"Aye." Khelgar paused in his progress, his small and friendly black eyes suddenly awash with a sudden sadness. "I did, as well."

"You don't understand. She needs to get this out of her system. She'll be back, just wait." Neeshka spoke up. She sat precariously on the low sloped roof of the armoury, tossing a dagger from hand to hand.

"How can you be so calm?" Shandra demanded, handing Khelgar his reigns as the dwarf tried to get comfortable in his custom made saddle.

"Like this." Neeshka just gestured at herself sarcastically. "Let her do what she's got to do! Scream, shout, break something… kill something, maybe?"

"You see nothing wrong with that?" Casavir rounded on the tiefling, a bite of anger in his usually measured words.

"Uh… No? It's not like Faith's going to kill someone who doesn't deserve it." Neeshka scoffed. "I don't know what you've got your paladin pants in such a twist over anyway. You said Bishop went after her? What's the matter; you don't think he got to her?"

"The very opposite." Casavir gritted out through clenched teeth.

Before Neeshka had chance to respond, hooves tore into the courtyard, dirt and debris thrown up in their wake as a scout pelted in from the outlying farms. There was panic on his face, and a sag in his shoulders as he dismounted.

"What news from the road, soldier?" Casavir strode forward, his presence like a beacon in the darkness, powerful and resolute.

"My lord Casavir!" The scout looked lost, and appeared to stumble on his words. He was young, barely nineteen, and the weight of something terrible lay upon him.

"What news?" A knot of dread tightened in Casavir's chest, and he stared at the young recruit.

"The Captain is dead!"

* * *

_Perhaps he should have waited a moment and then returned to the room under some pretence; she'd probably have dropped the sheet by then and he'd get a pretty eyeful for his trouble. No, that was the quick and easy path again. He knew he had to move carefully; soon enough she'd be _begging_ him to look at her. Smirking to himself, Bishop stepped into the gloom of an alley beside the tavern, and grunted acknowledgement to the group of men waiting for him there as arranged. There was a clinking of coin as he produced a fair-sized leather pouch and tossed it to their self-appointed leader. The darkly clad man caught it deftly, and it made a satisfyingly heavy smack against his palm._

"_Noon." Bishop watched the man intently as he pocketed the payment. "Make sure it looks real."_

"_We can make it look real, friend." The tall man grunted in response, and there was a collection of dark chuckles from his companions. "You'd better make sure you can do the same."_

_Bishop's eyes burned, the amber tones within seeming to come to life and his lips twisted into a sneer. He'd remember that the bastard said that._

"_It has to be noon, understand, _friend_?" Bishop spat, drawing a tiny, black glass bottle from where it had been nestling in a hidden pocket and dropped it on the dirt beneath him. As the bandit grunted an affirmative response, Bishop ground the bottle into fragments beneath his booted foot. _

_Without another word to the collected men, he turned and left abruptly, headed for the stables to ready Asgaroth for the road. She hadn't thought to search his armour, though it was doubtful she'd have discovered the hidden bottle even if she had, nor would she have known what she held. It was a slow acting poison, with a generous opiate thrown in for good measure. A satisfied smirk tugged at Bishop's lips. She'd feel on top of the world until it wore off, and in two hours or so she'd be as weak as a kitten. It wouldn't kill her, obviously. That wasn't the point_.

* * *

Casavir felt his heart give a painful lurch and then twist free of its cage and plummet through his feet. A shocked silence flew in to deafen them all. He was rooted to the spot. He heard Shandra shout something behind him and Khelgar rushed to his side, brandishing his axe and spluttering like a mad man.

"Impossible!" The dwarf shouted, gesturing wildly with the formidable weapon.

"How do you…?" Shandra shook her head slowly, unable to process the words she'd heard. She pressed a hand to her throat. "Why do you say such a thing?"

"They say she fell to bandits, my lady." The soldier stared at the ground, and a tremor ran through his words.

"Who is 'they'?" Khelgar demanded.

"The border scouts heard word, my lord." The young scout twisted his hands together miserably. He'd not been in the service of the Knight Captain for long, barely a month in fact, but he'd come to carry a deep respect for her. She handled the keep as if it were a living thing; she didn't have much time for outdated laws or some of the more ridiculous traditions of Captaining – but she had all the time in the world for the men and women under her command. The third night he'd been here, he'd slipped under an outcrop of rocks just south from the meadows to get out of the rain, and have a quick smoke. He'd nearly choked to death when he realised there was already someone standing there. The lady knight had thumped him amiably on his back until his coughs subsided, and they had spent a whole half hour trying to count the hundreds of tiny frogs ricocheting through the grass. He'd made a pathetic joke about the frogs being 'hopping mad' and cringed as soon as the words had tumbled out. But she'd thrown back her head and roared with laughter. When he'd told the rest of the squad about it, they'd grinned and congratulated him and after that day he didn't feel like the newcomer anymore. When the border scout had shouted up the news to him, he'd rode like his life depended on it back to the keep.

Shandra sat down heavily on the cobbled ground, feeling the colour drain from her face. Her mouth was open and she was shaking her head repeatedly. It couldn't be true. She could hear Neeshka shouting from her position atop the roof, could see the tiles she was hurling down in a display of impotent rage. She glanced up to find Casavir with her gaze, desperately searching for some kind of strength in the sudden whirlwind of panic and pain which hurtled through her. There was no solace to be found in the paladin; he stood utterly still, his face expressionless. A hand came to lie gently on her shoulder and she turned to the solemn face of Elanee.

Everyone was talking; all shouting, all at once and it was deafening. But it was not as thunderous as the rushing in his ears, as if a great river had burst and its banks were overflowing. Casavir felt as if he'd been standing dumbstruck for an eternity, when a downy white dove took flight to his left, and startled him out of his trance. No. _No. _That would _not_ be the way she died. He turned abruptly, striding purposefully to his horse and fitting a foot in the stirrup. He hoisted himself adeptly into the saddle and took up the reigns, a kind of darkness settling in his eyes, a grim determination which frightened the hell out of the young scout.

"Where did the rumours begin?" Casavir asked, an undeniable authority underlining each syllable. In the half light, framed from behind by the iridescent glow of the courtyard torches, he seemed to be some glorious avenging angel - beautiful and haunting, his halo of fire crackling around dark locks.

"Beyond the third outpost, my lord, but…"

Neeshka made to hurl another tile from the roof, drawing back her arm in fury; but a flash of white in the gloom caught her eye. She paused mid-throw and a leap of hope twisted in her chest. The pale flare had come from the path outside, illuminated by the dim light of the waning moon. The flash came again - movement in the dark. She _knew_ that movement!

"Asgaroth! I see Asgaroth!" She let out a ragged shout, dropping the tile from her trembling fingers.

* * *

_Faith was whistling under her breath; every now and again she'd remember the words and he'd catch a brief moment her singing quietly to herself. _"Long for the sailor, beneath the skies…"_ She'd mix up a word and go back to whistling, patting the steed beside her in time to the tune. _"Long for the stranger you know so well…"_ She walked like no one else he'd ever seen; there was a kind of hypnotic grace in her movements. He'd spent a damn long time watching her walk too; when you're on the road, tired and pissed off, there's few things more diverting than watching the ass of the girl in front. _"For me to come back home…"_ He grinned darkly to himself, watching her up ahead; she'd been complaining for the last half hour that her hangover was coming back. That'd be the poison of course, working its way through her body and methodically slowing things down. _"Long for the eagle, on wings so strong / Long for the hunter, he won't be long…"

"_What the hells are you singing?" He caught up with her, adjusting the bow slung over his shoulders irritably and casting his gaze briefly to the sky. Nearly noon. The storm clouds were rolling in from the west, and already the beginning of what would probably be one hell of a downpour was discolouring the dirt all around them._

"_I don't know. Some old song I can't remember properly."_

"_Clearly." He quirked a brow as she glanced sharply at him, and then rolled her eyes at the expression of amusement on his face. "Hungry?"_

"_Not so much." She gave a brief shrug._

"_Here, take it." He offered her an apple in his outstretched hand. It gleamed in the pale light, ripe and inviting. "It's good."_

_She flashed him a grin and plucked the apple from his hand, sinking her teeth into the crisp skin; the sudden sharp flavour made her throat constrict. Her legs were aching far more than they had any right to be. They'd been walking for a while, but not half as far as she'd gone in the past; obviously her night of overindulgence was coming back to haunt her and if it got much worse she'd have to give in and ride instead. _

"_So I guess yours isn't so much of a hangover cure as it is a suppressant." She lifted the back of her hand to her mouth as she coughed a few times, giving the half eaten apple to Asgaroth, who made quick work of it. "Great. Everyone is going to know that I got drunk."_

"_So?"_

"_You know what I mean. I'm supposed to act in the good of the keep, not sulk off to some godforsaken tavern in the middle of nowhere and drink myself into a damn stupor." She let loose a long breath and rotated her shoulders, trying to rid herself of the deep ache which had settled there. _

"_Gods, if I could for once not hear about that fucking keep…" Bishop threw up his hands in exasperation and violently kicked a large stone from his path, sending it skittering into the underbrush which framed the path._

"_It's my home, B." Faith's voice held a depth of sincerity Bishop found infuriating._

"_I told you about calling me that." His words came out in a savage snarl._

"_And I told you not to call me princess. I guess neither of us listens."_

"_Let me ask you something." Bishop stared intently at her, carefully considering the long-term implications of what he wanted to say. It'd piss her off, sure, but she'd get over it once he swooped in and saved her ass from the 'unexpected bandit attack'. She'd be fucking hard pressed to fight right now. "Assuming you manage to take down this 'King of Shadows', how long do you think that damn keep is going to stay yours?"_

"_What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Faith's eyes narrowed to two azure slits of suspicion. _

"_You're in favour right now, sure. Nasher's building you up to be the new 'Hero of Neverwinter'. But afterwards…" He made an exaggerated grimace._

"_Bishop, stop pansying around the point and tell me whatever nasty thing it is you're dying to say."_

"_I'm trying to do you a favour. It'd hurt like hell for someone like you but I give it six months before his lordship 'moves you on'." He saw the confusion on her face and his laughter was like a series of barks. "Come on. Neverwinter's heroes aren't meant to last forever. They don't have a great track record in that area. He'll ship you off to some distant realm under the pretence of 'keeping the peace', so you're not a threat anymore."_

"_A threat to whom?" Ice crystallised her words._

"_To Nasher, of course!" _

_The rain was really coming down now, as they rounded the last group of trees into the mountainous passage which would take them back to Crossroad Keep. _

"_Do you know how popular you are with the commoners?" Bishop hunched his shoulders, trying to keep the rain from trickling down the gap in the neck of his armour. "You're the bloody hero of the people, _Knight-Captain_! You took that shit-heap of rubble and turned it into a force to be reckoned with. Sooner or later people are going to start making noises about having you in charge of other things too. Like Neverwinter, for example."_

"_That's the most fucking ridiculous thing I've ever heard."_

_"Nasher doesn't care about you, idiot!" He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her around to face him. Their gazes locked like thunderbolts, each one ablaze. "Not fucking Nevalle, either. You're nothing but a useful commodity to them! You serve your purpose and they're happy. They keep letting you ride out on these suicide missions. You really think they care if you come back alive?"_

_"Everyone gets used, Bishop!" Faith shouted, tearing her arm free, the rain plastering her hair to her head and beating a deafening drum roll on the path all around them. "I don't know what I find more insulting - the fact that you believe so strongly that no one gives a damn about me, or that you think I don't realise what they're doing in their ivory towers!"_

_"Then why the hell do you keep doing it?" Bishop yelled against the storm, soaked to the skin. _

_"BECAUSE I CHOOSE TO!"_

_The wind lashed sheets of rain against the pair, leaning against the onslaught of nature to battle words. Bishop looked stunned for a moment, a deep furrow in his brow as he stared intently at Faith. She shook her head and looked away, pursing her lips. After a moment she looked back at him, her voice lower but still tight with anger and emotion._

_"I choose to live my life this way. I choose to let them use me. And no matter how much you look down on me for it, I get to go to bed knowing I made a difference. You think I care what the nobles think of me? It doesn't matter what they think, or what they say or do - I'm not doing this for points at court or a shot at a high table! That's just bullshit politics, and I hate it. But I put up with it so that I can help the people who can't sleep at night because they're too afraid to close their eyes; who have to live their lives not knowing whether or not they'll see their children grow up, or have to bury them. No one should be made to feel helpless."_

_"That's not your fault, or your job to fix." Bishop's expression had softened as she spoke, exasperation and frustration evident in equal measures in his voice, and he took a step closer to her, raising a hand as if to brush back a strand of hair now slick against her cheek but apparently changing his mind, or thinking better of it, and letting his arm drop to his side once more. What the fuck was he doing? "Why do you think you have to save the whole world?"_

_"Better to do something than nothing." The wind dropped, and she looked away again. "I suppose you think I should be more like you, but I don't think I have the energy to not care as hard as you do, Bishop. The only thing I've ever seen you alive with is anger; not joy, or sadness or even shame. You cultivate your rage like it's a precious thing, and I honestly don't know how you keep it all inside you without shattering."_

_"Well now, is that it?" Bishop sneered, and the sudden re-emergence of venom in his voice made her look up, eyes narrowed. "Aren't you the little hypocrite, preaching about emotional honesty? You want me to have feelings? Well I'll tell you what, Faith. I'll show you mine, if you show me yours."_

_The clearing blazed silver in an illumination of lightning as they glared at each other, the rain falling so hard now that it splashed back up where it hit the forest bed, giving the impression that the ground itself was whispering steam from the Hells into the wooded places of the world. Bishop's mind was racing and for the first time in a month he was forging down a path he hadn't planned - this was a fucking stupid road to go down, this rocky trail of truths and revelations. What possible good would come of it? Nothing. He had nothing to reveal, and no matter what he told himself, she probably didn't either._

_Faith's head was pounding again; her skin felt on fire and for one horrible moment she thought she was going to fall. Hangovers were a bitch, and having Bishop come at her like a marauding seeker of dirty secrets wasn't helping matters. Somehow she managed to stay on her feet, but the gaze she turned on the ranger was blurred, and painful. Bishop's gaze was fierce and demanding, and he was close enough that she could see the raindrops streaking down his form, and detect the distinctive pine and leather smell she had become used to associating with him._

_He took a step closer, and placed his hands on her shoulders; she just watched him levelly, and shook her head slowly: __**No**__. He started to speak but she jerked suddenly and violently, making him draw back in confusion. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth opened and shut as if she were silently gasping for air. Slowly, she looked down at her own chest, at the tip of the arrow which now protruded there._

_"Oh," she said quietly, and then her knees buckled._

* * *

To Be Continued...

* * *


	6. The Pheonix Precipice

**Chapter Six – The Phoenix Precipice**

Rated M

* * *

Terrors come in the night, carried on leathery wings and carved from the talons of dark beasts. Fear is born when the lights go out; when men can no longer see with their eyes and so their minds take over. A shadow becomes an enemy, a patch of gloom becomes a monster and all the time the real dangers slip by unnoticed. Huddled together in the dark, men forget to fear each other, and the greater threat is often ignored until it is too late. In times of darkness, when the shadows spread across the land, some men come with torches to illuminate the way; others come with swords, with axes, with _arrows_…

Asgaroth thundered past the courtyard gates, foam dripping from the bit and eyes rolling like some demented hell steed. Bishop held Faith against him with one arm, and hauled on the reins with the other. The horse _screamed, _sounding like the war cries of demons.

"What in the hells is happening!" Khelgar's steed reared and he fought to keep himself in the saddle, twisting his head around desperately to see who rode Faith's horse. Did she live? By all the gods, let her be alive!

Bishop was aware that people were shouting, of movement all around him as he dismounted agilely, laying Faith carefully down on the cobbled ground of her home, supporting her head. The girl was pale – almost grey – and the crimson of the blood which had run from her mouth was a stark contrast to her ghostly pallor. Bishop fought the urge to gather her in his arms, disgusted at himself for being such a willing pet.

"Where's that damn elf!" He yelled, looking up through fiery, wild eyes.

But Elanee was already at Faith's side, her small face set in grim resolution as she listened for breath, pressed fingers against Faith's neck and quickly assessed the wound. Confusion blighted her expression, and she glanced worriedly at Casavir as he skidded to a halt on his knees beside the prone girl.

"They came out of nowhere." Bishop unwound his hands from behind her head and lowered it carefully to the stone beneath.

"Something is wrong," Elanee shook her head and gently pulled open one of Faith's eyes, frowning at the unresponsiveness she found.

"Poison." Bishop said, and Casavir glanced sharply at him. "There was poison. On the arrow."

"Where is it?" Elanee commanded, pressing her palm against the bleeding wound. "I need to assess what kind it was!"

"I took it out! Tossed it!"

"You… You idiot!" Elanee waved a hand, effectively dismissing him, letting out a desperate breath and returning her attentions to Faith.

Bishop stood, booted feet making unnaturally loud crunches on the ground as he backed off, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of the fallen Knight Captain. _Isn't this what you wanted? _No! He didn't want her dead, he wanted her broken! _She looks pretty broken… _Not like this! Broken on the inside, his to command. A flash of colour in the gloom caught his eye; he lifted his hands to his face, realising they were covered in her blood. He felt something shift inside, but covered it with an ugly sneer, dragging his hands unceremoniously down the front of his leather jerkin.

"We must get her somewhere warm, quickly." Elanee commanded, wiping her hands as she stood and nodded to the paladin.

Casavir's heart was hammering in his chest; as soon as he had seen Bishop at the reins of Faith's horse he'd known something was terribly wrong. For a horrifying moment he'd thought the declaration of her death might have been true, and the pain which shot through him like a white-hot razor had taken him off guard. Seeing her like this was almost more than he could bear, and he reached under her at Elanee's nod, hoisting the girl as if she weighed nothing and setting off at a sprint for the lights of the keep.

Bishop watched them go, sinking back into the shadows which framed the structures in the courtyard, darkness blossoming like a forest fire in his mind.

"Don't die, Faith." He muttered. "Don't you fucking die. I'm not finished with you."

* * *

Faith drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. Nightmares plagued her; the man who had been the Guardian appeared again, but he spoke so quietly she couldn't make out the words. The chessboard reared up and exploded so that she was trapped in the cave with rocks thundering down all around her. From time to time she was aware of voices, and bits of conversation wafted by before sleep took her again.

"…_why she hasn't recovered…"_

"…_poison was unusual…"_

"…_doesn't make any sense…"_

"…_been on the arrow, it wouldn't have…"_

The nightmares repeated themselves, though their nature changed; sometimes Casavir tried to help her from the falling rocks, but he disappeared before she could grasp his hand. The Guardian morphed into Bishop, who ignored her from his bone crafted throne, a marionette dancing and spinning in his hands. A sheet of ice rose up to be a mirror, and she saw a crown of arrow-heads sunk deeply into her brow.

She woke, terrified by a heart wrenching scream; it took a few moments to realise it had come from her. Her body felt freezing despite the thick furs which covered her, and she could feel rivers of sweat across her skin. She had to move, had to go! She didn't want to be here anymore. She heard herself give a strangled sob, and struggled to sit up, but strong hands caught her shoulders and guided her aching head back to the pillow.

"You must rest, Faith." The voice was deep and soothing.

She opened her eyes and Casavir's face came into view, blurry through her teary vision. She could feel herself shaking like a frightened animal, and desperately lifted her hands – so heavy – to scrabble and grasp at his wrists, frantic to feel something real.

"Please…" Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "Please don't leave me."

"Never."

A disturbed sleep claimed her once again; but as she closed her eyes she carried the memory of his face - of strong features clouded by concern - with her, and her nightmares didn't seem quite so horrifying.

* * *

In the days that followed, Casavir barely left her side. When she awoke in the hush of dawn, her sleepy eyes were always met with the sight of the paladin in the chair beside her bed. Most of the time he was awake, watching her serenely with his chin resting on his fist, or engrossed in the words of a small leather bound book. From time to time, however, he would be asleep and these were the moments she cherished. In sleep, his face lost all the cares he carried and he was allowed to just 'be'. He breathed gently, and the ghost of some long forgotten smile played at his lips. She could never watch him for long - it always felt as if she was intruding - but in the moments she stole, she felt something swell and flutter inside her; a kind of painful joy which was made up of a million different thoughts, all tinged by a strange small sadness.

This morning was different, however. Her eyes were met by an empty seat, and the sudden heavy significance of it almost brought tears to her eyes. She'd let out a grey sigh, before the door opened with a barely audible click, and Casavir stepped through holding a heavy basin. Faith felt her insides give a little jump, and spent the next few seconds trying to figure out exactly what that meant.

"Elanee is indisposed this morning, and the lady Githzerai is nowhere to be found." Casavir placed the copper basin carefully beside the bed, folding and re-folding the gauze bandages before laying them methodically on the nightstand. It looked to Faith as if he was anxiously trying to find something to do with his hands, and desperately trying to avoid her gaze. "So I am charged with seeing to your wound."

'_Ah,' _Faith thought, and said out loud: "It's nothing you haven't seen after a hard battle, Casavir."

"Forgive me, but that was different." "These are your chambers and we are alone. If Zhjaeve could be found…"

"But she's not here. You're a skilled healer, Cas. But if you'd rather not, then the only other person who knows his way around a bandage is Bishop."

They shared a brief moment, both watching the other carefully. Finally, Casavir gave her what looked suspiciously like an exasperated glance, before nodding curtly and turning his back to her.

Wordlessly, she pushed the blankets from around her and sat up. A knot of apprehension had risen in her chest, something new and thrilling which lifted her spirit and made her feel like a teenager. Careful not to jolt herself, she shifted to the edge of the bed, swinging her legs over the thick mattress to place her feet daintily on the soft texture of the wool-spun rug with her back to him. She actually felt her hands tremor a little as she pulled the cotton shift from her frame then reached back to gather the sheets respectfully around her lower half, and the tremble was something she knew couldn't be blamed on her weakened state. Sensibly, she started to smooth her hair around one side of her neck and over her shoulder out of the way; but then she stopped. _If you don't do it, he'll have to do it… _Despite all his years spent fighting, she suspected that his touch was gentle and warm… No, it would make him uncomfortable, and he didn't deserve to have little games played with him. She pulled her hair clear of the wound and as an afterthought laid her arm across her breasts, more for the benefit of his modesty than hers. He was what she always thought of as a 'forever' man. If he gave you his word, he would keep it – it wouldn't even be a question. If he told you he'd love you everlastingly, then he would.

It was a breathtaking thing, more precious than any treasure and more beautiful than all the songs of man; it summoned a deep and exquisitely painful hope in her, and a ferocious sadness that she'd never be the one who saw him alive with that kind of adoration. She was too broken. He deserved someone who could care for him as fiercely as she knew he would them, not someone like her whose affections had only ever been temporary. She didn't know how to love, not really; she only knew the superficial infatuations of a bard – passion and obsession. Maybe she belonged with Bishop after all; they were both students of lies and pain. Bishop was a wild animal; Casavir was a man and a hero.

"My lady?"

"Oh, sorry, I'm ready."

She bowed her head and waited, listening to him soak the bandages in the healing ointment, trying to relax as he adeptly removed the old dressing and began work on the exposed wound. A haunting smile crossed her face as she sat there; he _was_ gentle. It stung, but if she'd asked him whether or not it would hurt, he wouldn't have lied to her either. Not like Bishop, who was so full of shit that she wouldn't be surprised if it started leaking out of his ears. He'd been different towards her lately, but she'd be damned if she took that at face value, he was up to something; if he was trying to play her, he'd get the shock of his life.

"Did I hurt you?" Casavir's voice banished her unpleasant reverie, bringing all rational thoughts crashing down around her as she was suddenly extremely aware of just how close he was to her.

"No, Cas." She managed quietly.

"You tensed suddenly."

"Oh." She started to turn her head to look at him, but his hand landed decisively on her head and pointed it back towards the window. She heard him chuckle. "I don't think you could ever hurt me."

She heard him pause for a moment, heard a brief change in his breathing which suggested he'd opened his mouth to speak, but he must have changed his mind and resumed tending to the wound. After a while, he drew back, the pressure changing on the mattress behind her.

"I'll just let you… Rearrange yourself." He said.

She cracked a smile at that, and waited until his footfalls faded again before turning on the bed and folding the sheet into a narrow strip to lie across her upper torso. The arrow had pierced her chest at the base of the blemish from the shard, making the long straight scar look like a musical note. It looked like a B Sharp, which was fairly hilarious and good advice to live by, though she'd have preferred a B Natural. She lay back with care, arranging the other sheet to cover her lower half.

"Okay."

Casavir turned, ready to attend to the other puncture wound; he had to force himself not to stop dead in his tracks. She lay calmly on the bed, one arm keeping the folded sheet close to her, dark hair spread out against the white of the pillow, the other arm bent and cradling her head. She was bewitching. He was terribly uneasy with this situation, he was out of his depth and he knew it; but more than that, he was aware of the soldiers in the halls, of what they might say to dishonour her name. _You've been here every day. Why should today be any different? _To them, it probably wouldn't be. His wariness eased a little at this thought and as he moved to take up another fresh dressing, a glimmer of iridescence caught his eye. A jewel sparkled indecently at her navel, and he quirked a brow at it. The grin she unleashed might have been the downfall of kings and empires.

"It's scandalous, isn't it?" She laughed, a wicked glimmer in her eyes.

"It's certainly… Different." He measured his words carefully, concentrating on the job at hand. _Concentrate! _Soak the bandage; wring out the excess, press it to the wound. Repeat.

"That's diplomatic speak for 'scandalous'."

"I expect there's a story behind it." He managed.

"Not really." She watched him carefully, her calm exterior mindful not to give away the hammering of her heart. She swore it might jump clean of her ribcage and betray the exquisite nervousness she felt at having him this close. "A Calimsham dancer passed through West Harbour one summer, and I saw she had one. I was sixteen, and like so many things in my life it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"If you don't like it, why keep it?" He dared to glance at her, and immediately wished he hadn't as his insides gave a lurch at the sight of her staring so intently at him.

"I thought about taking it out, but…" Her voice trailed into silence, and she sighed, turning her eyes to watch his hands work at her injury.

"What?"

"Well, Amie did it for me and Bevil was there too." Her voice gave a slight tremble at the mention of her friends, and he couldn't help looking up in concern. "I suppose it's a reminder of them, and I don't want to lose another one."

"Well, items of jewellery have long been used to honour the memory of others." Casavir spoke after a short pause, bending his head to once more concentrate on the wound. It was healing nicely, and hadn't developed the telltale black rim usually associated with poisoned lacerations. "I think I would have recommended some kind of necklace, but I suspect the unconventional soul in you would have objected."

"You're teasing me." Faith looked stunned.

"Forgive me." A spectral smile hovered over his lips.

"Only if you promise to do it again."

"I suppose we will see."

He reached for the crepe bandage and loomed over her for the briefest of moments; not for the first time, Faith marvelled at his presence. He unrolled the bandage expertly and laid the end gently over the completed dressing.

"Hold this, please."

Faith pressed her fingers against the edge of the bandage, arching her back to make it easier for him to pass the strapping around her back and to her front. As he reached round for the second time, she felt a shiver go through her; his arms were around her and the electricity of skin-on-skin was incredible. For a sudden mad moment, she fought the urge to reach out and grasp his arms, to keep him close to her; in this instant, all she wanted was to feel the wonder of something untainted and more than that, all she wanted was _him_. If she hadn't have woken two weeks ago in the same room as Bishop, and felt the panic take her over then perhaps this urge would not have been so strong. But the depths to which she had sunk frightened her. Her fingertips found his shoulder and traced a tiny spider web pattern there; he lifted his head instinctively, a quizzical expression clouding his strong features. Almost nose-to-nose, they stared at each other, two pairs of blue eyes, both holding a depth of conflict they barely knew how to deal with. Faith felt the air grow thick.

Then the door swung open.

"Little one!" Khelgar's booming voice rang out, and Casavir drew back hurriedly, gathering up the scraps of discarded bandages, tossing them unceremoniously into the basin.

If Khelgar had noticed anything amiss in the room, he did not comment on it, only rushed to her side, his earnest face screwed up in an expression of unadulterated joy.

"You're in trouble, lassy!" He roared happily.

"You're not wrong," she murmured, watching Casavir beat a hasty retreat.

"Two weeks and nay a word! I ask myself: what have I done to make my little one treat me so cruel?" The grin plastered across his face belied the seriousness of his words, and Faith laid her head back, watching him with a smile of her own.

"Casavir told me you were much happier out there, hunting bandits." She gave a lazy grin at the sight of him spluttering and stamping.

"Of course I was hunting them!" He brandished a fist and shook it at the heavens as if he felt the gods personally responsible. "Shot you full of poison… That's no way to fight! That's a coward's fight, that is!"

Faith relaxed, content with watching her friend rant and rage, his pacing taking him all around the room, his voice raised and thick with brogue. He was more than a seeker of fights these days, but every now and again something happened to trip that switch in him and he sounded just like the Khlegar she'd met outside the Weeping Willow Inn. After a while he ran out of steam, and flung himself into the chair beside her bed, panting with the exertion of his fit of temper.

"Feel better?" She enquired teasingly, a slight raise to one sloped brow.

"Yes." He huffed. "Or no, not really. Lass, I wish you'd come to me."

"Khelgar…"

"Let me finish!" He leant forwards, drawing a hand down his beard and a tinge of sadness crept into his eyes. "I can't pretend to know why you ran off like that. The demonling thinks you needed some time on your own, but I can't see that at all! You should have come to me, I could have helped. If you wanted to get dead drunk, I could have helped there, too."

"I know why you're hurt." Faith lowered her eyes to rest on her clasped hands. "But I was only doing what felt right at the time."

"Aye and I don't want to give you a hard time about that, it's difficult enough for you. But that bloody ranger is strutting around as if he's your new second-in-command, just because he happened to find you and it's bloody maddening."

"I wondered how he'd play it." She murmured, but Khelgar was too distracted to hear.

"He could have taken us with him, and we'd all have found you. But nooo…"

"Did you find them?" She asked, rather suddenly, hoping to distract him from were his ranting might take him. "The bandits."

"Well, in a manner of speaking, aye." He flashed her a look which clearly told her he knew what she was doing, and they weren't finished, but he'd leave it for now. "By the time we deciphered the ranger's instructions enough to figure out their last location, they were already dead."

"Who killed them?" Faith worked her way up onto her elbows, furrowing her brow.

"Can't say as I know, lass," The dwarf shrugged, and a far away look stole into his eyes. "Riddled with arrows, they were. All of them, and then strung up against tree trunks like some godforsaken sacrifice. I guess someone hated them even more than me, eh?"

Faith didn't reply, only gave him a half-hearted smile, while a kernel of uncertainty stole into her heart. Who would go to so much trouble for common bandits? It didn't make any sense, just like everything else in her life, it seemed. A wave of fatigue rolled over her, tugging at her eyelids and making everything seem suddenly absurdly bright and the bed beneath her felt unsteady. She cleared her throat and turned back to Khelgar, but it was too late; he'd already seen the weariness in her, and he stood laboriously, patting her vaguely on her forearm.

"Get some rest, lass. You'll be up and about in no time, I have no doubt."

"You'll always be my right hand man, Khel." Faith murmured as she let herself sink back into the cool surface of the duck-feather pillow. "Don't listen to Bishop."

"Didn't believe him for a second." Khelgar's voice was thick with sudden suppressed emotion, and as she closed her eyes she heard him move to the door and out beyond.

* * *

More dreams. Nightmares. The rocks fell like the wrath of gods, the hammering of hard rain, or the falling of a new world. She was trapped beneath the earth; broken and bloody, her body writhing in agony, her mind still too aware of everything which happened, of every bone which splintered. Dirt and dust fell into her eyes, her nose, her mouth – she choked and struggled to breathe, but breath escaped her.

She awoke to the delicious cool of a washcloth against her burning forehead, melting away the dreams until they were nothing but a glimmer of a memory against her fractured mind. A slow smile crept about her lips, and she kept her eyes shut for the time being, just savouring the sensation.

"Casavir…" She murmured softly into the eternity which might have stretched before her.

"No, Faith. It's Elanee."

"Oh, I…" Faith's eyes flew open and she felt a blush start to rise in her cheeks. She'd whispered his name! Idiot. Trying not to appear as ruffled as she felt, she searched Elanee's face for any haughty look or flash of judgement, and was relieved when there didn't seem to be any trace of reproach there – the elf simply concentrated on dabbing the cool cloth against her brow.

"How are you feeling?" Elanee asked after a few moments, a perfectly balanced expression on her delicate features.

"Better. Stronger today."

"I am glad."

"Are you really?"

Elanee didn't reply, only gave a sigh and moved to wring out the cold compress in the basin next to the bed. The water trickled through her fingers, cool and reassuring and she pressed the damp cloth gently to Faith's forehead, a small smile on her lips.

"I never wished you any harm, Faith. You know that."

"Look, I don't want to get in an argument with you, frankly I haven't got the energy for it." Faith turned her head away from the elf, fixing her gaze on the single flower in a thin vase which rested serenely on the nightstand. She wished Elanee would just leave, just pack up her stuff and get the hell out; then she'd be one less thing to worry about, not one more. Gods, what she did not need right at this moment was another lecture about how much of a 'walking impulse' she must be to go out, get wasted and then get shot because her instincts were working on a hangover low.

"I did not come here to argue with you." Elanee wiped her fingers on the crisp white apron she wore, carefully folding her hands in her lap before she spoke again. "I sense that it is more than mere injury which pains you, Faith. I feel a deeper agony within you, one I can only assume is born from the fate of your village."

"Wow!" Faith breathed, sarcasm dripping from the word as she turned her head back to regard Elanee, a mocking expression of wide-eyed awe on her face. "You're like a psychic! Who else would figure out that having my old home burnt down and everyone in it killed might make me feel bad? Amazing! Bravo! Are you done?" Faith turned away again, intense waves of renewed guilt and pain ricocheting through her and tearing bigger holes than any arrow could manage. What the hell was Elanee playing at? Was she really trying to open a wound so fresh?

"Faith, I watched you as you grew in your West Harbour." There was a pause before Elanee's voice carried over to her, a strange guilelessness about her tone which Faith found oddly comforting, though she wouldn't have admitted it. "I saw the people who loved you, and they did _love_ you. They would not wish you to feel this way."

"You don't know that. You can't even ask them. They're all dead." A raging ocean of guilt was pitching and broiling in her heart.

"They will only truly die if you forget them." Elanee tentatively laid a hand on Faith's pale, cold fingers, as if bridging a gap between them. "But Faith? That does not mean you must remember them _all of the time_. Allow your past to drive you, if you so wish. But do not allow it to drive you insane."

"I should have been there." It was out faster than she could have stopped it, enwrapped in a hoarse whisper. It was the dirty little secret which had been festering malignantly in her chest for weeks now, poisoning her thoughts.

"Faith, listen to me. If you never hear another word I say then so be it, but listen to me now. _It wasn't your fault_."

Faith's heart squeezed painfully in her chest and she felt tears spring into her eyes. For a moment, she found it hard to breathe. She'd treated Elanee terribly, but she was the one who'd voiced the one thing she needed so desperately to hear.

"I took it all for granted." She said suddenly and croakily, whipping her head around to meet Elanee's surprisingly sympathetic gaze. "All of it. I always assumed I'd go back there some day. Even if I knew I really couldn't. There was always... There was a tiny part of me that assumed I'd just pick up where I left off."

A sudden loud commotion rang out from beyond the closed door, things clattered and banged in the passageway, a great deafening cacophony of crashes as something – one of the suits of armour? – was banished to the ground. Elanee whipped her head around, patting Faith's hand soothingly as she stood and made to investigate.

"Elanee, before you go…" Faith struggled up onto her elbows; her eyes brimmed with new tears and a strange, sad determination in her gaze. "I'm so sorry. For everything. I had no right to treat you with such disrespect. I was ashamed of my actions, and I took it out on you. I'm… Well, I'm sorry."

"My impassioned words outside Old Owl Well were born from a place of self righteousness and arrogance." Elanee cast her eyes to the ground for a moment, before allowing a remorseful sigh to pass her lips. "I am the one who owes you an apology, and it shames me that it has taken this long for me to deliver it."

"Forget it." Faith offered a tentative smile and laid her hand over her heart earnestly. "Let's just start again, and not worry about…"

She was cut short as another resounding crash rang out, and a furrow settled into her pale brow. Elanee returned her smile graciously, and hurried away, out of the door and into utter bedlam. Her mouth dropped open, and she hurriedly drew the door shut behind her; Faith was strained enough, she didn't need to know the unpleasant truth behind these puzzling noises.

The scene was pandemonium. Two figures were locked in a horrendously violent clash; punches flew and connected with sickening thuds. This was a confrontation which had been building for the best part of a year and though she had no idea what had happened to break the uneasy truce between Casavir and Bishop, she did know that one of them – or both – might end up dead if something wasn't done quickly. Casavir was far superior to Bishop in strength and the ranger looked like he'd taken one hell of a beating already; but Bishop was tough and quick, he fought dirty too. They'd kill each other.

"Stop it!" She demanded, trying vainly to pull the warring men apart, but she was knocked to the side by a stray elbow and collided with one of the marble plant pots.

Casavir shoved Bishop away from him savagely and turned to help the fallen elf, but Bishop had no intention of letting things lie. His foot connected brutally with the back of Casavir's knee, sending the paladin crashing to the flagstones. Two steps took Bishop close enough to deliver a series of ignoble and vicious kicks to his floored foe, letting out visceral grunts as each boot landed. He drew his leg back again, about to stamp horrifyingly with all his might on the paladin's skull, but Casavir moved faster than he expected. His hands were around Bishop's ankle and a powerful twist sent the ranger sprawling onto his back. Casavir grunted as he stood awkwardly, grasping an arm around his midsection and the many broken ribs therein. Bishop sprang back to his feet, but was yanked off them again as someone hauled him from behind with a furious bellow. Khelgar was all wild eyes and booming wrath as he got between the two of them, whirling his axe around his head with expert precision, the blade coming close enough to their necks so that he might have given them a shave.

"Pack it in, the both of ye! That's enough!" Khelgar's voice was a roar. "Shame on you!

Keeping a wary eye on Bishop, who was slumped breathless and furious against the opposite wall, Casavir knelt and helped Elanee to her feet, wincing at the protests from his ribs, a rush of intense shame starting in his gut and winding its way up to his mind. He should never have allowed Bishop to goad him into a physical altercation, it was beneath him. It was also exactly what Bishop had wanted; he'd deliberately made those sordid and depraved suggestions about what he'd been doing alone in the room with Faith to garner precisely this reaction from him. He'd walked right into it. Why had he given in this time, though? Was it because there was a seed of truth in what the ranger said? _He'd wanted to kiss her the last time he saw her, when they were so close he could smell her hair and feel her breath on his face…_ But that was an instinct, something he had no control over; to keep oneself from acting upon instinct is what separates us from animals, surely? _What about Faith, then? She is all instinct. _ But that is not all she is! Her fierce determination is powerful; yet she is sensitive and compassionate, unerringly generous and heartbreakingly strong in the face of overwhelming danger. _She can't hear you, you know. If you told her you felt this way…_

"Forgive me, Elanee." He uttered, trying to drown out the insistent voice in his head. The elf just nodded, grasping a bruised elbow with a grimace, but no real harm had been done.

"This isn't over," Bishop's voice was like a dagger in the belly; dangerous and sleek with menace. "You hear me, paladin?"

"Aye, it _is_ over, laddie!" Khelgar hollered, waving his axe a second time. "The lass is tryin' to rest in there, so away with you!"

Bishop started forward, the beginnings of a disagreement dancing in his throat, but it died away as the rational part of his mind managed to finally break through and command some attention. He couldn't gut the paladin in the corridor outside Faith's damn room. That would hardly make for a convincing argument of his trustworthiness. Still, on one satisfying day he swore he'd see the paladin choke on his own blood. He twisted his lips into an obnoxious sneer, never taking his eyes from Casavir's.

"Fine. The better man walks away." If there was a hint of a dare in his words, the lifting of his brows and jutting of his chin was a downright challenge.

Casavir narrowed his eyes slightly, but only resolutely stared down the ranger until he finally turned to leave, a ghost of a snigger hanging in the air. Khelgar rounded on Casavir.

"And you, well! I thought more of you."

"I assure you, there is none more disappointed with my actions than myself." Casavir spoke gravely, wincing as he tested his shattered ribs with the fingers of one hand.

"You can't let him get to you, lad." Khelgar made to lay a fatherly hand on Casavir's shoulder, but could only reach to pat him vaguely on his arm. "I don't expect he'll be with us much longer, anyways."

"What makes you say that?" Elanee asked, curiosity brewing in deep eyes.

"I came up here to find you both." Khelgar rumbled, moving to retrieve a small, tightly bound package from the floor where he'd dropped it to intercede in the brawl. "There's something you both need to see. And well, then we need to figure out what we're going to do about it."

* * *

Bishop watched the three of them leave from the shadowed confines of the alcove he was leaning in, a quirk to one brow at the unusual sight. Looked like he'd united them all under one banner; a banner which doubtlessly had a depiction of his head on it. Fuck them, they couldn't touch him, Faith would never forgive them. A sly smile crept suddenly over his face. _Faith_. She'd be alone.

He took the long way around, just to be sure, dodging the guards who patrolled aimlessly around the keep, sinking into the shade whenever one passed him by. Most of them were still too green to be any real use anyway; he was half convinced that the only reason Faith let them patrol inside was because the infestation of feral cats in the halls were the only things they could handle. Even as that thought crossed his mind, the wettest looking recruit he'd ever seen bent down to scratch one behind the ears. _Oh, what a fucking idiot. _He entertained the idea of jamming his dagger between the kid's ribs and saving him from the life of a fool, but decided against it. He didn't know how much time he had before Faith's nurses came back.

A few more twists and turns, a quick turning of the door handle, and he was inside her room, his senses filled with the sudden scent of her which he'd missed for weeks. No, he hadn't _missed _it, as such. It was more of an annoyance that he couldn't get to her. He didn't like people messing with his things. He inhaled deeply.

The room was dark, but he could see her sleeping form in the comfort of the four poster bed, stretched out and content like a purring cat. Obviously her nightmares had eased off – he'd overheard Elanee clucking like a fretful hen over the way Faith tossed and turned in her sleep. He moved a few steps closer, an inscrutable expression crossing his features as her face came into view. She looked peaceful and somehow fragile; more delicate than he'd ever seen her, even when she'd fallen into her drunken stupor back at the tavern she'd retained some of her rigidity because of the nightmares which plagued her. But here, in this serene sleep, she looked… _Beautiful. _No. _Lovely. _No! She looked like an idiot who left her doors unlocked and unguarded when she was helpless.

He shook his head and turned away from her, pinching the bridge of his nose until it hurt. _What the fuck was wrong with him?_ He'd thought she was dead and for some reason that had made him feel… Well, it had just made him _feel _and there was the fucking anomaly, right there. Perhaps he _should_ just kill her. It'd be easy right now; there were no guards and she had no strength to speak of. She wouldn't even be able to fight him if he just picked up that pillow and jammed it over her face until all her troubles were suddenly irrelevant. Something inside him balked at the idea, and that sent shockwaves through his mind which propelled his feet to the side of the bed, and his hands to the spare pillow. He held it above her face, his features expressionless as he hovered it there for a moment. _Screw her first?_

Faith gave a sudden and unbelievably loud snore, making Bishop start and damn near _drop_ the pillow on her. His heart hammered at an incredible rate, and he muttered soundlessly to himself, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as she made a follow up 'gneh, gneh, gneh' noise. He tried to suppress the grin which tugged at his mouth, but it was insistent, and after a moment he was shaking with silent laughter. She could talk her way out of _anything, _even when she was asleep. How the fuck do you kill a woman like that? He shook his head and carefully laid the pillow back where he found it, fighting back a sudden urge to kiss her. No, he'd stick the original plan. If he found himself growing confused, he'd just remember that he could kill her any time he wanted. Anytime.

* * *

Elanee's chambers were at the top of one of the spiralling towers of the main keep, and Khelgar had insisted hers be the rooms they met in. 'Away from prying ears' he'd said, immediately igniting the interest of both elf and paladin. The room they sat in was sparely decorated, wild flowers had been planted in small pots around the slit windows, and a workbench had been set up where she brewed strange and wonderful potions. They had drawn up straight-backed wooden chairs around a crackling fire, the shadows dancing like shadowy conspirators in the small space.

Khelgar laid the package reverently on a small table Casavir had dragged in from another room on Elanee's instruction, and began to unwrap the cloth coverings meticulously. It was a long, thin package and was nothing special to look at.

"Now, you'll have to forgive me, lassie, for not coming to you with this right away." Khelgar muttered, sparing a glance to Elanee who just nodded wordlessly. There was a weight of seriousness in the dwarf's demeanour; she felt instinctively that something important was unfolding, and that it hung over Khelgar like a weighty fog. Casavir sat quietly in the chair, his presence seeming to overlap into the room, his fingers steepled and his face serious as he watched the dwarf work. "I had to be sure, you see. Didn't want to kick up a great bloody fuss over nothing if I was wrong, but by Tyr's arse…" He made a sudden face and glanced at Casavir guiltily, who raised a brow, but by a nod bade him continue: "Well, I underestimated how fiddly and difficult all that potion nonsense is. Had to rope Grobnar in to help me out, though I didn't tell him what I was doing, and he didn't seem to care so long as he had a new project to work on."

"What project?" Elanee asked.

"This," Khelgar unfolded the final flap of material, revealing a small bundle of sticks beneath. No, not sticks – arrows. "I told you I'd found those bandits. Told the little one too, trying to give her a little peace of mind – though it gave me none, I'll tell you."

"These belonged to her attackers?" Elanee shifted forward in her chair, casting her eyes over the collected arrows.

"Some of them, aye." Khelgar fished one out and held it in a patch of light cast by the fire. "But this one…"

"…Belongs to Bishop." Casavir's voice was rich and resonant in the semi-darkness, and an undertone of anger tinged his words. He hunched forward, forearms on his knees to ascertain he wasn't just jumping to a conclusion. But no, it was too similar to be a coincidence, and you just didn't find them anywhere else. Already, he was beginning to draw some conclusions.

"You're right."

"How can you tell?"

"The feathers, see?" Khelgar handed the arrow to Elanee who brought it into the light once more, attentive to the distinct feathers which clung to it. "Now, I'm no bird watcher, but…"

"Of course," Elanee breathed, her mind having made the connection as soon as she looked at the feathers properly.

"You live here long enough, you start to get a feel for everything else that lives here, too." Khelgar shifted in his seat, sticking his chin on his fist as he spoke. "I know what game is to be found in the woods, I know what critters blight the farmers the most and I know that Bishop insists on shooting down those bloody rare hawks to feather his arrows with."

"I didn't think Bishop the kind of man who'd need fancy decoration on his weapons," Elanee said, placing the arrow carefully next to the others.

"I very much doubt he is, under normal circumstances," Casavir spoke up, reaching to grasp the arrow himself, and turning it around in his hands. "However, I do not think he has ever spent a great deal of time in a place such as this. I imagine he is… Bored." He spat the last word with venom. "Eradicating an entire species probably passes as a hobby for him."

"Aye, that's all well and good, but let's not forget where I found this." Khelgar sat up straight again, absently cracking the knuckles of his left hand, as he tended to do when tense. "There wasn't just one, there were many."

"So, he fired back at the people who shot Faith?" Elanee offered, confused.

"He did. But that's not all he did. I found some of these in the bodies of those bandits, strung up in the trees and near crucified."

"But what…" Elanee began, but Casavir interrupted her.

"He killed them, Elanee. Bishop killed the bandits and arranged them in a showy display. He did all of this while Faith was near death on the ground." A shadow had fallen over Casavir's face, a sudden power to his strong features which made him seem even more commanding than ever. His eyes _burned._

"She could have died!"

"Aye. That's not all neither. He lied to us." Khelgar reached forward, handing two plain-feathered arrows to Casavir and Elanee, one each. "These are the arrows I collected from the discarded quivers of the bandits. Bloody luck that I stumbled across them; he'd hid them well. Must have thought the stupid lumbering dwarf wouldn't have found 'em in a million years. There's no poison on _any_ of them."

"Then where did the poison come from?" Elanee lifted the tip of the arrowhead to her nose and inhaled deeply. It was as Khelgar had said; no whiff of a foreign substance reached her incredibly sensitive elven nose.

"I don't know, lass. But not from any arrow these poor bastards had on them."

"Do you think Bishop poisoned Faith somehow? But why?" Elanee had seen first hand the licentious glances Bishop threw the way of their Knight Captain, and for the life of her the only reason she could see that he might want to kill her would be the kind which was born from a selfish desire to keep her from anyone else, if he could not have her himself. It was sickeningly plausible, but she was sure he hadn't given up on 'claiming' her yet. "She'd be easier to overpower if she was weakened." She mused. "He does have that thing for her."

"You don't think…?" Khelgar hadn't thought of that, and he sat bolt upright in the chair, horror on his face.

"I'm not sure. What do you think?" She directed the question to Casavir, who had been eerily silent since Khelgar's final revelation, but it was the dwarf who answered.

"Anything after the arrows is just me guessin', lass." Khelgar sighed heavily and slumped back in the chair, grimacing at its hardness. "Could be she got that poison in her system a different way. You'd need to do a hell of a lot more digging to find out the truth."

"Like what?"

There was a sudden, sharp snap from the gloom, and Casavir stood slowly, laying the broken shaft of the arrow he'd been holding back on the table. He loomed above the other two and began to pace.

"We will need the arrow Faith was shot with; I imagine Bishop kept that one to himself. I cannot pretend to know the mind of a man like that, but it strikes me as something he would keep. Someone will have to search his room while he is not there. We may have to bring Neeshka in on this." Khelgar started to speak, but Casavir silenced him with a stern look. "We will also need to make certain… enquires in the tavern Faith drank in the night she disappeared."

"Then what? If we find out that someone else poisoned her?" The elf watched Casavir carefully. There was a stirring of anxiety in her heart, a certain wish that this information had never been uncovered. Faith was recovering, they'd finally settled their differences and she was sure Bishop wouldn't really… Would he? They would have to be uncompromisingly discreet, or they would rip the keep apart. Not many people were fond of Bishop – in fact Faith was the only person she could think of who could stand him at all – but he was one of the foundations of the keep whether he liked it or not. In such an unstable time they had to at least _appear_ to be united.

"Then we will find that person, and they will be dealt with."

"And if Bishop did it?" Khelgar started to wrap the arrows back up carefully, evidentially a little concerned that the paladin might start breaking everything.

"Then Faith can be told and I finally have a just reason." Casavir's voice was enwrapped in reverence; it was more of a prayer than an answer, and he seemed to make a sudden decision, turning towards the way out.

"A reason to do what?" Elanee twisted her head around, following the path of the paladin as he walked the floor.

Casavir reached the door and paused, one palm on the ornate handle. He turned back to his companions, the low light seeming to melt away from him, the darkness afraid of the virtue he radiated and the shadows shrinking from the justice which strengthened him.

"To kill him." He said, simply, before walking purposefully from the room.

* * *

A promising eastern breeze caressed the skin of a solitary girl sitting cross-legged upon the lush green of a rolling hill. It tousled her tresses of chestnut; tendrils of hair casting shadows across her face in the glory of a noonday sun. It was in days like these that she most felt like she was still recuperating from some illness, something which had crept stealthily inside her, a malady from which she was sure she would never fully recover. The tormented thoughts of what became of West Harbour had been like a sickness in her.

She'd run the wrong way. Instead of rushing to the friends and family of her keep, she'd fled to the ass-end of nowhere, and ended up worse off than before. She smiled a little as the banners and flags of Crossroad Keep fluttered and shone in the magnificent sunlight. But she'd been brought back, and one by one the people of the keep had given little parts of themselves to help her recover. Casavir had given his strength and vigilance, Elanee had given her compassion and a friendship had been renewed there. Khelgar had blessed her with his loyalty; Sand with his wisdom and refusal to treat her as if anything was wrong at all; Shandra with her fierce friendship and unparalleled empathy. Grobnar had lifted her spirits and told her tales, Neeshka had acted the fool for her and given her unwavering support; Bishop had brought her back to the bard in her soul, and carried her home when she fell; apparently even Sir Nevalle had made an appearance at her fevered bedside while she was unconscious – something she was grateful for, because if he'd been there while she was awake and delirious she couldn't help wondering if she'd start to ask inappropriate questions about his hair. The rotting wound in her heart had been healed by the strengths and loyalties of her friends; it was stronger than steel and more cherished by her than any star in the sky. Today, she was invincible.

Faith stretched like a cat, the beginnings of a chuckle rising in her throat. She let herself fall back into the lush grass, grinning up at the sky. Elanee had been right; she could mourn West Harbour, but not forever. She could remember them with grief, or she could honour them with the way she lived. Today was a new day, a fresh start, a glorious horizon.

Faith chose life.

* * *


End file.
